


A Snake in the Grass

by SierraBravo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Au where there's not currently a pandemic, But also, Fanart, Gabriel is a dick, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Human AU, M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Theyre both anxious wrecks because idk how not to heavily project, V. V. Bg anewthema, mostly fluffy and happy but with small pockets of angst, not quite human au, rating may change based entirely on my whims
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 70,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraBravo/pseuds/SierraBravo
Summary: Aziraphale befriends a snake which keeps showing up in his bookshop, but is, at the same time, plagued with a new handsoome but insufferable customer who keeps trying to buy up his entire section on gardening…
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 917
Kudos: 590





	1. The Snake In The Garden

Anthony J. Crowley can turn into a snake. He doesn't know why or how; he has just always been able to. There is no childhood memory of being bitten by a weresnake, or a radioactive one, but as long as he can remember he has just been able to. It's a simple process. Like slipping off one skin to reveal a second one underneath (a concept in itself quite snakelike). It's easy.

He has managed, somehow, inexplicably, not to ever tell anyone this rather massive secret about himself, other than once or twice when he was five. The reactions he got were enough to make him decide that no one can ever know. But that's fine. It's a shame no one gets the little jokes he puts into life, but that's fine. He wears (faux) snakeskin shoes, and has what might be considered slightly too many snake themed accessories. Even got one tattooed on his face when he was young. It's a bit faded now, but still there. He had it touched up when he was 35, but that's a while ago, and it might be time to have the little guy redone. He affectionately calls it Crawly. Another little in joke with himself.

Crowley is in tech. Well, he's sort of in tech. Strictly speaking he does PR for a tech company, but that sounds slightly less cool than being in tech. Makes it sound like he lies for a living, which he does, but that's beside the point. He's got lucky over the years, and been offered things that are more administrative, but he quite likes having a job that lets him not give a shit the minute he leaves his desk, but still pays well enough to let him keep his nice big flat in Mayfair, fill it with house-plants and keep him in whatever newest technological gadgets he needs. For his job, he claims. Gotta know what he's selling. So it's a company iphone whatever they're on now, letters? M, perhaps? Probably not that many of them yet.

The think about sometimes turning into a snake is that he has occasional snakey needs. So he's got a set-up in his flat. A big terrarium sort of deal, nice rocks in view of the big windows, and a state-of-the-art heating lamp for when it's not particularly sunny out, which considering this is London, is most days. There's branches to climb on, and the whole thing is surrounded by his small jungle of house-plants. He's proud of them, got a whole pretty big instagram account dedicated to their progress. It's pretty popular with plant people. His icon is a snake plant with a pair of sunglasses stuck into the soil of the pot. Another little joke for himself.

Once or twice people he has had over have asked what's with the empty snake set-up, so the eternal joke is that his snake is perpetually at the vet. Needless to say, his relationships don't really last long. There's always the lie between them, and look. That's fine. He's totally cool with just having an ever long series of flings and casual things. Admittedly it's been drying up a little bit lately, but he is hurtling towards the end of his forties with worrying speed, so perhaps that is only natural.

Could he just dispense with it all? Refuse to turn into a snake at all? Sure. Yes. He's tried that, but then he will start waking up as one, shifting shapes in his dreams, and that's just bloody inconvenient. And trust him, your casual hook up waking up and finding the snake they were told was at the vet in your bed instead of you is not great. Lot of screaming, for one. Awkward to get away to change back for another. One time was enough.

"Right, see you losers on Monday," he announces to the two people he shares an office with, and grins at their glares, sliding his sunglasses into place and picking up his bag.

He wears them out, most of the time. He hasn't got snake eyes, not exactly, but they are a startling golden amber sort of colour, similar enough to the way his eyes look as a snake. People he knows are used to it, but he gets tired of the questions and he hates contacts. So. Sunglasses. Cool ones.

Time for a weekend of relaxing. Chilling out. Chilling out so much he goes cold blooded, even. He goes by home, dropping off his stuff, all valuables and such. Just got a single house key, a pair of joggers, some shoes and a t-shirt. It's sunny outside, and a perfect day to go hang out and take a nice long snooze in the heat of the afternoon sun, and he knows just the park for it.

He's worked out a system, but it only works, so far, in this one specific park, with a small copse of trees just far enough removed from the walking paths that he can sneak in, hide his clothes in a hole in one of the trees' trunks, stuffed in a plastic bag, and snake out without fear of discovery. Then it's just a matter of slithering over to his favourite sunny rock.

It's easier than you'd think, moving along as a snake. You've just got to avoid the most popular areas, and where the grass has just been mowed. Sure, it's been more difficult since they got those little grass mowing robots, but Crowley likes those enough not to mind. They're robots, and robots are, by definition, cool. He's had one of their domestic cousin the roomba since they came on the market. 

And the thing about snakes, too, is that people are scared of them. Which doesn't make sense, unless you're super venomous. Crowley's pretty sure he's not venomous, but he doesn't know. He's never bitten anyone, and though he started at some point in his teens trying, he has never quite been able to identify himself. Which is worrying, isn't it, only knowing one of your own species. Bit like if he only knew his non-snake shape was some kind of primate. Luckily it's not something he's ever had to admit to anyone.

The rock, when he reaches it (he is not a very big snake, perhaps about two feet long, it is difficult to measure yourself, although he has tried a few times involving cameras on timers and rulers on the floor), is nice warm. He winds his way up it, then curls himself into a loose coil of limblessness. Had he eyelids, he would have closed them, basking in the summer heat. It's a blissful while, and after a moment, when no humans seem to be approaching (he is, after all, matt black scales against a dark rock), he tucks his head under a part of his midsection, ready for a nap.

"Oh, hello there!"

Crowley wouldn't normally assume that anyone speaking is talking to him when he's like this, only the voice is coming from incredibly close up, and it is said in the tone of someone who has just encountered a particularly friendly neighbourhood cat. He extricates himself from himself, peering up in the vague direction of the noise.

"What a beautiful creature you are," the voice says, and it may be the way the sun behind him lights up his white-blond hair like a halo, but Crowley could swear for a moment that the person speaking to him is an angel.

The man looks to be Crowley's age, with curly halo-esque hair, the wardrobe of an Edwardian librarian and a delighted smile that instantly makes Crowley wish for a facial structure that would allow him to smile back. He crouches in front of Crowley, close enough that he's clearly not worried about being bitten. God, the rest of him is a bit angelic too. Cherubic, that's the word. Or, hold on, are cherubs the ones with three heads and myriads of eyes and wings? Well, the renaissance version of cherubic, anyway. 

"What are you, dear boy, I can't quite tell," the man says, evidently mostly to himself, leaning ever closer to examine Crowley's scales.

In an uncharacteristic move, Crowley decides to be helpful, unwinding himself some and raising up the first part of himself, so the man can admire the way his red belly scales gleam in the sun.

"Oh, you _are_ a beautiful thing, aren't you? Would you mind terribly," the man asks, in the distracted voice of someone reciting their inner monologue to their pet, fumbling in the pocket of his worn sepia waistcoat.

He tugs out the oldest smart phone Crowley has ever seen. Or, that's not true, because Crowley had the first one that money could buy, and has had every second generation or so since then, even his generous pay not quite able to keep up with trends. But it is at least a decade old, and Crowley has no idea how the thing even works any more. It is in a worn leather wallet case, and Crowley half expects to see bronze gears on it, worried for a second that this guy is some weird steampunk larper, but no, just a genuine fucking anachronistic weirdo, it seems. A very charming one, though. He holds the phone up, and it makes the little fake shutter sound.

"Oh, lovely," the man mutters, and hey, Crowley's feeling generous, so he gives the man a few more poses, a chance to get his best angles.

He knows them. Again, cameras and timers. There were a few failed attempts to use his tail, but that didn't go anywhere. Well, other than the apple store after he accidentally knocked his phone onto the concrete floor. That had been embarrassing. 

"Oh, you are such a pretty thing, dear boy. Or, no, I ought not to assume. How does one tell snake genders apart? Do you even have them? Oh well. You probably don't care. And I'm talking to a snake, oh dear."

Had Crowley lips he would pout. It does matter to him, even if he's not always a hundred percent certain what gender he is either. One would assume his snake self matches. He sticks his tongue out to scent the air, and not just because he is mildly curious what this man smells like. Books and dust and tea and- is that a hint of croissant?

The man shifts, getting out of the way of the sun, phone still poised to take more pictures. The resolution must be abysmal, but who is Crowley to turn down modelling? He may be a fun mixture of vain and self conscious about his human body, but his snake one he has no qualms about declaring to be pretty. Red and black scales with the contrasting golden eyes? Stunning. A colour scheme he strives for in his daily life, which, with the combination of amber eyes and red hair, essentially means getting to be lazy about it and just wear shades of black.

The man puts his phone back into his pocket, and then pulls out a fucking pocket watch, as if his phone doesn't tell the time, is he trying to impress a snake? But his eyebrows raise, and he turns and glances behind him. In the warm early evening light his eyes are a lovely hazel, and god, since when is Crowley this easily charmed by cute men who socialise with strange snakes?

"Oh dear," the man mutters again, "I was meant to open the shop back up after lunch and I-"

After lunch? It's very clearly nearly seven. Whoever this man is he has no head for business and a very forgiving boss.

"Oh. Well. Goodbye, you sweet little thing."

He gets up and walks of, heading west. At least Crowley assumes it's west, as he is rapidly becoming a dark silhouette against the sun which is lurking uncomfortably close to the horizon right now. Ugh. Night. Cold. Not Crowley's favourite things, so he took slinks off, slithering back to where he has hidden his stuff, and idly wondering how hard it would be to social media stalk this intriguing stranger.


	2. A New Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets to know the little serpent better, and Crowley's wiles are, inadvertantly, thwarted.

Aziraphale Z. Fell of Fell & Co finds a rather rudely written message on his “back after lunch" sign when he returns to his shop. Honestly, he did very deliberately not specify when lunch would be over, and it is certainly not his fault if customers make assumptions. Admittedly eight pm is a tad late, but it is not unheard of. At least not for this particular shop. Had Aziraphale known or cared what yelp was he would have found several two star reviews citing borderline time bending hours, terrible customer service and a marked hostility towards anyone who tried to actually buy anything.

As it is, he usually closes by eight anyway, so he lets himself in and flips the optimistic open sign to closed, locking the door after him. A significant bonus, he has found, to living in the small flat above his bookshop, is that it’s only a walk up two sets of stairs and he is home. Also, the bookshop is excellent for storing his extensive book collection, because the flat is essentially just a bath, bedroom and tiny combined kitchen and living room (filled with bookshelves containing his absolute favourites, his top 200 or so), and tragically does not have a library room, something he has wanted since he was five years old.

He had simply gone past a different used bookshop after he finished his lunch, and had been so fascinated he spent a few hours there, talking himself out of buying yet another copy of some of his favourites just because they had a nicer cover than his own editions. And then, having forgotten he was meant to reopen his own shop at all, he had gone for a nice walk and met a strangely cooperative and photogenic serpent. That truly was odd, wasn’t it?

Aziraphale walks into the tiny kitchenette in the back room of his shop and puts the kettle on. He busies himself finding the perfect tea, measuring it out meticulously, finding and rinsing out his favourite mug, which has a Shakespeare quote on it so dense it must be something like font size 5. It is terrible design, Aziraphale realises that, but it validates his feelings about the text being more important than the looks. Content over cover. He feels as though this quite applies to him as well. Not the most polished exterior, perhaps, but containing a wealth of information and learning.

When the tea is made, steeped and ready, just a minute or two until it has reached optimal drinking time, he brings it with him over to the natural history section of his shelves. He’s got a few volumes on herpetology, and is ever so curious what the little one he met in the park might be. There are only three snakes native to Britain, and he is certain it wasn’t one of those. The colours, for one, far too vibrant to belong on this greyish green and brown island. No, possibly it’s escaped from a zoo, or else a private owner. Ought he to report it to someone? But it was such a sweet little creature, it almost seemed to understand what Aziraphale was saying, though of course that is nonsense, impossible.

It is fifteen minutes before he remembers his tea, and by then it’s unpleasantly close to room temperature. He drinks it anyway, though with a little grimace of regret. Good tea wasted, a bit.

-

The lovely man, it turns out, is bloody impossible to find on social media. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, not really, because Crowley’s got fuck all to go on, other than him being vaguely in retail and getting his fashion from antique shops. With a groan of frustration Crowley tosses his phone at the sofa and pours himself a big glass of something red and old and expensive. He can’t have a proper wine cellar, because he lives on the fifth floor and he imagines the elderly couple living below him would be quite upset if he tried stealing half their living room for wine storage, but he does have one of those wine fridges. It’s big and chunky and keeps all his bottles at exactly 12.7 degrees and vibrates gently, as if a train was passing by in the distance constantly. Crowley finds it soothing.  
It isn’t like him, this attraction at first sight business. But there is something about attractive men who stop talk to strange snakes as if they were a beloved pet, give him lots of compliments and seem like delightful, if fashionwise distrastrous people. He attempts to put the man out of his mind by watching a Bond marathon on telly, but his heart’s not in it. When he eventually falls asleep on his devastatingly stylish and horrifically uncomfortable sofa to the sound of gunshots, he has uncomfortably nice dreams, with soft warm hands petting his scales.

He tries again, the two following days, going back to the park, but this time as a human, lurking around for half an hour or so in the afternoon while he drinks his mildly spiked coffee and reads what can only very loosely be defined as news on his phone, but he's not indulging himself further than that. He has no success either day, and he still doesn’t find any photos of himself in the snake tags on instagram. Admittedly, the man didn’t seem too updated on technology, but he had a very defined aesthetic, and those kinds of people generally, Crowley has found, like to share it.

Then it’s Monday again and he’s back at the office and it gets infuriatingly busy for a while. He doesn’t even have time to think about the man until the next Friday, being too exhausted by the time he gets off to do anything requiring more brain power than getting some take out, a glass of wine, and collapsing in front of something on Netflix until he’s ready to sleep. 

-

Aziraphale goes back to the park on Wednesday, but the little serpent is nowhere to be found. Of course, it would be silly to expect to find it hadn’t moved for nearly a week, but still, he had been hopeful. So he sits down and tosses some nice whole grain bread bits to the ducks, who swarm around him excitedly, and are quickly joined by a few seagulls who attempt to shoulder them out of the way in order to get to him. But who is he to decide which bird is more worthy of bread? So he tries to toss some to all of them, but soon runs out, to the marked and loud displeasure of the gulls and quieter disappointment of the ducks. 

Back, safely, in his bookshop, with his lunch break having been confined, this time, to a somewhat more conventional two hours, he opens up, and reluctantly has customers to deal with, which is always unfortunate. He does his best, of course, not to sell any books. Or, well, rather, he has a small section, comprising perhaps ten percent of his total inventory, which he regularly buys and cycles through with the purpose of selling. The rest is, essentially, his private books that just happen to be stored along with the other ones. These don’t have price tags, but occasionally someone will try to buy them regardless. He is happy, however, for people to look through his books, read them, and make notes. He frequently have students popping by, particularly anyone interested in theology or history, who will spend hours searching through his collection. This is fine, provided no one brings any drinks in. He once had a second edition Austen spoilt by someone dropping their latte on it, and he still occasionally has nightmares about it.

Aziraphale is lucky, arguably, in that he has a decent monetary cushion that was left to him as an inheritance. He would, of course, have preferred his parents not dying when he was young, but he is not selfish enough to not realise that being able to run his bookshop in such a particular an unhelpful manner as he prefers is a blessing. He does do some book restoration too, but it isn’t particularly lucrative. It doesn’t bother him, and in fact he quite enjoys the quiet, methodical work of it. It feels a little bit like healing. Putting something soothing and classical on in the background while he strips old glue, resows backs and straightens out pages. It’s quite what he imagines meditation must be like, were he inclined to try it. But his mind defaults to worry when left with nothing to do, and so he hasn’t.

Two days later, he is walking through the park again. This time, though, he has locked the shop early, and got out so he will be there a little before sunset. He imagines the little serpent is likely to come out again while the sun is still warm, and he frankly doesn’t know why he’s doing this, other than that he still hasn’t managed to identify it, and it feels like a little mystery. And, well, he has always liked mystery novels. Well, any kind of novel, really, as long as it’s good, but still. He could do with a reason to get out of the bookshop for something other than food, and this is as good a reason as any.

He is in luck this time. The little serpent is coiled up on the rock, head resting atop itself this time, looking up at him with a golden eye. Aziraphale looks around, but there isn’t anyone close, just a jogger passing by, and a couple of children playing and yelling a little ways away. He crouches down.

“Hello again, little one,” he says.

The snake raises up, its little tongue flickering out briefly. Out of pure instinct, Aziraphale holds his hand out, as he would to a strange cat or dog. The snake closes in, and Aziraphale very nearly regrets his choice, but it simply nudges its head into his hand softly.

“Oh,” he breathes, and very carefully strokes a finger along the scales on its head.

It must be escaped, he decides, or it wouldn’t tolerate this sort of close contact from a human. He makes a note to try to find out how to get in contact with the owner who surely must be looking for it. Unless. Unless someone has released this little darling because they no longer want a snake? He’s heard of people doing such things, but it seems awfully cruel, doing something like that to a sweet and innocent little creature.

“Do you have an owner, little one?” he asks, and it almost looks like the snake shakes its head, but it turns out it’s just looking for the right angle, and, finding it, curls itself around Aziraphale’s wrist.

“Oh, you’re quite forward, aren’t you?” he murmurs, as the snake rises, coiling its at least two feet of graceful length around his arm.

Moving very carefully, not wanting to startle the animal, he sits down on the rock it has just vacated. It is, indeed, nice and sun warmed. He angles himself so the snake has as much sunlight to bask in as it wants. The head rests near Aziraphale’s elbow, and those lovely slitted gold eyes look attentively up at him. Or at least just up at him. Snakes faces, he decides, are hard to read. It flicks its little tongue out again.

“You know, its not safe for little serpents to be out here all alone,” he says, closing his eyes against the sun, which reflects sharply of the water nearby, blinding him from several angles.

“And I know you’re not native. Where have you escaped from, hmm? Or have you been abandoned?”

The snake hisses, but it doesn’t seem at all aggressive. It squeezes Aziraphale’s arm in a way that feels deliberate.

“I ought to take another photo of you,” he muses, “hang up some posters. I’m sure someone must be looking for you.”

The snake wiggles, which isn’t an answer.

“But then, I suppose I would have to bring you with me. Would you like that, do you think? Staying in my bookshop for a bit? I’ve always thought I might like to have a bookshop cat. They shed something frightful, though, and scratch up ones clothing with their many claws. Perhaps, if no one comes to fetch you, you could be a bookshop snake? Less traditional, I know, but you do seem very friendly. And I’ve had some problems with mice. Do you eat mice? It seems a snakey thing to eat. And I’ve only ever seen the large rats here in the park. They seem a bit large for you, I think.”

The snake hisses, as if in protest.

“Oh, hush,” he tells it.

They sit there together until the sun slinks away below the horizon. It gets colder surprisingly quickly.

“What do you say, hmm? Do you want to come along with me, or do you have a nice little nest somewhere around here?”

He angles his arm down, so the snake has easy access to the ground. It doesn’t slink down, though, but continues instead to climb up Aziraphale’s arm, curling around his shoulder and tucking its head below the collar of his coat. Again his heart starts to race. Instinctual fear of snakes, he supposes, of something with fangs that might very well contain venom being very close to his major arteries, but the snake doesn’t bite. It does, however, curl itself twice around his neck like a heavy, scaly scarf. Which is somewhat terrifying, but it doesn’t seem to have any bad intentions. Actually, it probably has no intentions at all, beyond Aziraphale’s skin being a nice source of heat. Yes, it must definitely be someone’s pet, he thinks. Trusting, used to being handled. Still, he had better be careful.

He hurries a little on the way home, nervous that someone will notice that his chunky scarf is, in fact, a possibly dangerous snake. Or an illegal one. He’s not entirely sure on the regulations for importing exotic snakes. But it goes fine, though he can feel the little serpent move slightly against him, through the fabric of his shirt. The tiny flicks of its tail.

Inside the bookshop he worries, for a moment, unsure of what to do. So, following his own tradition, he makes himself a cup of tea. Something herbal and soothing, that feels right. He wonders whether he ought to feed the snake. It doesn’t seem malnourished, and he’s fairly certain that most species can go a good long while without food, so it will probably be fine it he waits until tomorrow to go to a pet shop and get advice and supplies. But first. Poster.

The snake stays around his throat for a while, though it seems alert, scanning the bookshop for whatever it is snakes find worthy of their attention in bookshops. Presumably the herpetology section. Or mice. It uncoils itself, though, hanging down looser, the tip of its tail resting against his cup, absorbing the warmth of it. It watches as Aziraphale boots up his incredibly old computer, and painstakingly puts a flyer together in ms paint. It takes him three hours, because he spends so long looking for the wire to transfer the photo from his phone until at last he gives up and figures out how to email it to himself. He narrates his process to the little serpent. He isn’t lonely, he’s perfectly happy to spend most of his time alone, thank you very much, it simply seems rude to ignore one’s guests, even if they are, well, snakes.

When he has finished, he looks at the ancient printer under the desk in his back room. It has a dense layer of dust on it, and he sighs.

“That’s a project for tomorrow, I think, dear boy. Now, lets find you some nice accommodations.”

Snakes need heat, he’s pretty sure. And moisture? Or a lack of moisture. Definitely one of those two things. In the end, he settles for turning on the heating in the floor in his bathroom, and setting down a small bowl of water. Do snakes drink? They probably do. At least it can’t hurt.

“I’m afraid you will need to stay here, my boy, until I can work out something better for you, all right?”

The snake, snakelike, fails to reply. Aziraphale closes the door gently, and gets himself ready for bed. Fortunately there is a small half bath downstairs in the shop, because he wouldn’t want to risk accidentally letting the snake out in the middle of the night when he needs to relieve himself.

The next morning, the snake is gone. So are a jumper, a pair of trousers and an old, abandoned pair of jogging shoes from that one time an acquaintance of his had tried to bully him into trying jogging. He doesn’t notice this until months later.


	3. Bookshopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley attempts to introduce himself, but now with a lot more limbs.

It takes Crowley the rest of the weekend to get over the mild shock of Handsome Weirdo actually bringing Crowley back to his bookshop. Who does that? Who just fucking picks up a snake and brings it home because it might be abandoned? And puts it in their bathroom? But his worry is very sweet, Crowley will give him that.

After he had snuck out at one in the morning, and gone back to the park to get his stuff, he had had a brief breakdown when got back to his flat. Poured himself a generous glass of wine, sat on his sofa and stared blankly into the air as he drank. Then, when he felt slightly less baffled, he had written down the address and name of the shop, before he forgot it. He googled it too, but except for a phone listing and a bunch of unfortunate reviews, it had absolutely no online presence. But given what he has learned of the man, presumably A. Z. Fell himself, this is perhaps no surprise.

He wonders what the A stands for. Hopes it’s not Anthony, because while he may not use his first name unless forced, he doesn’t think he can bring himself to be attracted to someone sharing it. Too weird. But he has reaffirmed that he is indeed kind of genuinely into this absurd man with absolutely no technological savvy acquired after the year 2004. Who genuinely considers the concept of a bookshop snake, and just lets a strange reptile hang around his neck for a bit. It’s just a tiny bit embarrassing, but also equally charming.

On the following Sunday he drops by the shop. He spends maybe a solid half hour more making sure his hair is perfect, straightening it out, then messing it up artfully again. But it’s fine. He’s being casual about it. Just. Some book shopping, just while he’s in the neighbourhood. It is, after all, not that far from home. When he gets there, though, it’s closed. The poster showing the opening hours indicate that it ought to be open, as he had indeed checked before running away Friday night, but that doesn’t seem to have any affect on the current status.

Crowley leans in, peeking through the window into the darkness, and when he slides his shades down just a bit he can see a post it note which has drifted to the floor, declaring Mr. Fell to be out for lunch. Rude. Well. All right. He glances around the street, and glimpses a café down the road. How much of his weekend is he devoting to this? He gives himself a minute to decide. 

Five minutes later he’s sitting and sipping a quadruple espresso, pretending to read an abandoned newspaper while glancing up at the street every two minutes. He flicks through to the horoscope, but it’s not the one his friend Anathema does, so he assumes, assured by her, that it’s probably rubbish. 

_**Aries:** You will face adversities today, but you will persevere. Be wary of traffic, and consider giving that momentous decision another day or two._

Nonsense, clearly. He picks up his phone, starts typing up a message.

 **Crowley:** Yo. Is today my day for getting lucky?

The reply comes almost immediately.

 **Anathema:** I’ve already told you, babe, Newt’s the one for me. Sorry to break your heart again.

 **Crowley:** Fuck off. Meant my (star emoji, star emoji, crystal ball emoji)

The three dots appear, disappear, and then reappear.

 **Anathema:** First of all I do not use crystal balls

 **Crowley:** I’ve seen in your flat. Crystals all over the place.

 **Anathema:** But no balls. 

**Anathema:** Shit you know what I mean

 **Anathema:** Anyway. Hmm. You’re gonna be frustrated, but it will be worth it in the end. The stars are open to improvement should you offer to pay for drinks next time we go out.

 **Crowley:** Very easily bribeable, these stars.

 **Anathema:** (shrugging woman emoji, eye emoji)

 **Crowley:** Fine, yes, I will. For someone whose family’s got that sweet sweet (apple emoji) money you’re surprisingly cheap.

 **Anathema:** (shrugging woman emoji, sunglasses face emoji) 

And that’s a little unfair, he knows. She has finally managed to break out of the path that has been predestined for her by her family, and as a result she has been cut off until she, as they put it, comes to her senses. Still, she has shown him photos of where she grew up and it looks like the absolute height of luxury. But he deeply respects someone breaking with expectations and going their own path instead. Did he have a hand in at least encouraging her to do so? Maybe. Who could say, really.

They had met a few years ago, while she was representing her family’s business in England, and he had had the unenviable task of selling this incredibly smart and tech savvy young woman a new computer system. She had seen right through all his sales tricks, pointed out several flaws in what he was selling, and told him his stars were not aligned for this sale to go through. Which had all been in the first fifteen minutes of a planned two hour meeting. He had immediately liked her, and they had ditched the meeting and gone for drinks for the rest of the allotted time, and become friends almost immediately.

Abruptly he realises he hasn’t been paying attention to his target, and he glances up just in time to see the door to the bookshop close. So. Someone’s just gone in. Either the owner, or another customer. He decides to give it another ten minutes, so it will be properly open again. 

-

Aziraphale has just gotten back from his lunch break, which may or may not have lasted an hour and a half, but in his defence those crêpes were simply scrumptious, and needed to be appreciated and savoured properly. This time, thankfully, there have not been any rude notes left behind. Customers. Perhaps they’re not all bad.

He busies himself with sorting through a stack of new arrivals from his sales section, and gets, as he usually does, distracted with reading the backs of them and debating whether not these too ought to be kept for his collection. But no. Onto the shelves they go. One about trains and squids, another about Mexican vampires and a third about a dystopic future where the spiders rule with a rather lewd cover. He tucks it between two older volumes, in the hope their respectability will rub off on it.

Most of his selection, even of the volumes he is willing to part with, are old, from before such modern ideas as paperbacks or flashy covers, but his sales section is getting progressively more modern. Much as he loves his classics he feels too that it is important to pay attention, too, to the ones that might become classics in the future, as well as the genres that are not his particular favourite. The speculative fiction section has been growing, because that does seem to sell well, especially among the student crowd who frequently stay and simply use his older more valuable books for research, without buying them, and he feels he needs to reward that kind of behaviour. Also, they do generally seem like they need to take some breaks.

The bell above the door rings, alerting him that once again, his shop has been invaded by a customer. He leans out from behind a shelf to look at them. It’s a man about his own age, somewhere in his forties, but dressing as if he wishes, perhaps, that that was not the case. He wears all black, all sleek and tight on his skinny frame, and has coppery red hair that reaches his shoulders, partially tied up into a small bun at the back of his head. The man has not noticed Aziraphale yet, and he looks around the shop, making a face. Well, he’s wearing sunglasses inside, no wonder he can’t see what he’s looking for. Satisfied that the man doesn’t seem like someone inclined to steal rare books, Aziraphale returns to his task, hearing the soft footsteps as the customer moves about the shop.

“Hi,” he hears someone say from almost directly behind him, and he jumps, almost dropping his stack of books.

The customer is leaning against a shelf, watching him through dark glasses. This close Aziraphale can see a little squiggly tattoo on the side of his face. 

“Yes, hello. How can I help you?” he asks with that combination of cold politeness and subdued animosity he finds is most effective at making customers leave.

The man looks amused, which isn’t the intended effect at all.

“Safe to assume you’re the eponymous A. Z. Fell?”

He nods, tersely. The man smiles, and it feels oddly predatory, that smile. Teeth just a little too sharp.

“May I ask what the A stands for?”

Aziraphale sighs. 

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale tells him.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up from behind his dark glasses. Which is more or less always the response, and once again Aziraphale finds himself wishing his parents hadn’t named him after some obscure saint. 

“That’s, uh, that’s a name.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Look, is there something I can help you find?”

“Oh,” the man says, “uh, yeah. Looking for your section on gardening books? All I could find were natural history stuff from before the eighteen hundreds.”

Aziraphale sniffs.

“Surely plants cannot have changed all that much in the intervening centuries?”

The man is back to looking amused.

“Well, maybe not, but gardening techniques have. Look, if you don’t think you have anything, I did see a Waterstones down the road a bit-”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen.

“No,” he announces, settling the stack of books in his arms onto a nearby armchair, “no, I’m certain I can do better than that place. Follow me.”

The man looks openly delighted, now, to have found the way to forcibly extract some customer service from Aziraphale. He leads the man through the labyrinthine innards of the shop, and up the stairs to the second level, where he spends an embarrassing amount of time finding the right place. It has been a while since anyone has come here for this, after all.

“There,” he announces triumphantly at last, gesturing at the rather small section.

“Thankss,” the man tells him, dangerous smile still in place.

“No problem,” Aziraphale tells him, in a tone that does its utmost to communicate that it was, in fact, a significant imposition, “let me know if you need any more help.”

“Will do.”

Aziraphale leaves him to it, heading back down to continue his shelving. He likes to change it up, occasionally altering his sorting system, both to give himself an excuse to go through his books again, and to further confuse customers. They ought, he thinks, to really _want_ to find the books they’re looking for, enough to spend some time actually searching for what they want.

A little while later he can hear the man descending the stairs, and he makes himself scarce. He’s not hiding, precisely, but he is choosing to do his shelving in the least accessible corner, even if that puts Ann Leckie next to Cicero. Ideally the man will look for a bit, give up, and leave the book on the counter before being on his way. 

“Hi,” he hears from directly behind him, less than a minute later.

Ah.

“Yes, hello? Did you, ah, find everything you needed?”

“I did.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says, and turns back to his shelving.

“I’d like to buy this one,” the man says to Aziraphale’s back.

Aziraphale sighs audibly.

“All right. Follow me.”

The man leans one the counter as Aziraphale painstakingly writes the details in an old fashioned ledger.

“Do you take Apple pay?”

Aziraphale looks up at him over his tiny reading glasses. He doesn’t, strictly speaking, need them, but he does think they look nifty.

“I don’t know what sort of fruit based barter economy they do where you come from, but we only accept money here.”

The man has the audacity to laugh.

“I’ll take that as a no. Credit card?”

“The machine is down, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale tells him, having learned, eventually, that people tended to accept this more than the truth, which is that he hasn’t got one.

“Check?” the man asks hopefully.

“Cash only,” Aziraphale replies with satisfaction poorly disguised as apology.

The man smiles an only slightly annoyed smile, and pulls a wallet from a back pocket, which seems an impressive feat given how absurdly tight fitting his trousers are. Aziraphale smiles a tight smile, and opens the antique register to accept the man’s payment.

“Could I have a bag?” the man asks.

“Oh, we don’t do bags here,” Aziraphale replies with a hint of smugness, “you know. The environment and whatnot.”

“Oh, yeah, course. The environment. Good, yeah. Could I get a receipt, then?”

Aziraphale opens the drawer beneath the counter, getting out a small pad of paper, and beginning to write meticulously. He can practically hear the man’s eyes roll behind his sunglasses. He suppresses another smug little smile. The man’s foot taps as he waits, and his gaze must fall to the stack of posters laying next to the register, because he picks one up.

“You found a stray snake?”

“Ah, yes. Someone’s lost pet, I believe.”

“And took it back with you? That’s impressive. People don’t usually care that much about reptiles.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, the hint of a more genuine smile threatening to break through, “well, yes. The poor thing was so very tame, so it must be someone’s pet. And, you know, we are all God’s creatures, great and small. It’s not the serpent’s fault they’ve got a less nice reputation than cats.”

When he looks up the man’s face has gone soft.

“Right,” he says, “yeah. D’you mind if I take one? To hang up in my neighbourhood?”

Aziraphale, who has spent his weekend frantically searching for the snake in question without luck, hesitates.

“Thanks,” says the man with a smile, apparently not waiting for permission, and takes one, sliding it into his new book, and helping himself to the receipt Aziraphale is still holding.

“Err,” says Aziraphale, but the man is already heading out the door.

Oh, he thinks. _Customers_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite actively writing both this and an Good Omens Extended Universe thing (Aro/Lucian/Peter), so I will alternate, probably, which I update which means I'll try to have a new chapter up at least every third day, slightly depending on my schedule. Also wow, I forgot how much more engagement you get when you don't push yourself as far into a niche as possible. It's nice. Thanks to everyone who's commented, it really does make me a lot more motivated to write :)


	4. Four of Snakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley seeks love advice from Anathema, and Aziraphale is, despite his protestations, quite lonely.

Aziraphale comes back from his lunch break the following Friday (sushi, this time) to find a small black and red snake sunning itself in his shop window. It is cleverly hidden so as not to be terribly visible from the street, but Aziraphale knows his shop well, and spots it before he gets as far as to the right side of the road. He hurries, not watching his path closely enough, nearly getting hit by a passing car in his haste. Slowing down just outside he fishes his key from his pocket and lets himself in quietly. It won’t do to disturb the little thing.

  
He doesn’t remove the out to lunch notice, not yet. Instead he makes his way around an army of armchairs and little tables stacked high with books. The snake seems to be sleeping, though it is hard to tell, what with the lack of eyelids. It doesn’t move, and as he slowly moves closer he admires the matte gleam of black scales in the afternoon sun, and the little peeks he gets of bright red belly scales. It really is a terribly beautiful little creature.

  
“Hello there,” he murmurs, almost a whisper.

  
“Have you been hiding in here all this time?”

  
The snake twitches, the gracefully uncurls itself a little bit, the head and neck, for lack of better snake anatomy descriptors, rising up to look at him.

  
“But no, you can’t have been here an entire week, can you? I know this shop isn’t the tidiest but that is a long time to lurk in the dusty spaces between books. Not that I don’t dust, you understand, but there are simply so many books, and I have still not read more than perhaps half of them, and one does get distracted quite easily. But you don’t really care about that, do you? You’re a snake. Which presumably you know. All right. I’m going to stop talking to reptiles and go make myself a cup of tea. You stay right there, you understand?”

  
The snake flicks its tail, which Aziraphale chooses to interpret as a nod. He disappears into the back to make himself a cup of something nice and calming. There is a green tea he bought because the tin it came in was so very beautiful, and he hasn’t got around to trying it yet. He has to keep himself from going back to check repeatedly that the snake is still there, worried that once awake it will disappear yet again deep into the bowels of the bookshop.

  
With the steaming cup held carefully by its angel wing handles (a gift, meant ironically but loved unironically), Aziraphale returns to the spot by the window. The snake, true to its implied promise, has not moved at all. Or perhaps it is simply comfortable where it is. Aziraphale sets his mug down next to it, in case it would like some additional heat, and then drags one of the comfier armchairs close. He settles down, and offers the snake the chance to slither up his arm, which it takes.

  
“Oh, you are quite lovely, aren’t you?”

  
He could swear the snake looks pleased. But perhaps it has learned to appreciate praise from its owner, whoever they may be.

  
“You know, I spent quite some time looking for you last week. I really can’t quite figure out how you got out. Has your human taught you to open doors? I suppose that isn’t beyond possibility. Quite talented, aren’t you?”

  
It almost looks like the snake nods. It drapes itself around his shoulders, and he shifts himself and the chair until the sunlight hits its scales again.

  
“There, does that feel nice, hmm? I’ve read up a little bit on snakes. My herpetology books are a tad outdated, I’m afraid, but I hope I have learned something. I went to a pet shop to ask too, but seeing as I could not identify your particular species, they were not able to give me very specific advice, sadly. They did suggest a terrarium, but I told them I was not planning on keeping the snake indefinitely. I do hope I can help you find your human, you know. They must miss you terribly, whoever they are. The pet shop lad was quite startled when I told him I had taken you home, you know, without making sure you’re not venomous. And just in general I think. Not as common a thing to do with reptiles as with mammals, evidently. But you’re too sweet to bite, aren’t you?”

  
The snake hisses, showing off small but sharp fangs.

  
“Oh, hush, none of that, now, be nice dear little one. Otherwise I shall take you to a shelter, and I don’t believe they are set up for snakes at all.”

  
The snake, as if understanding, settles down at once.

  
“Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to read a little. How do you feel about Ibsen, dear boy?”

  
The snake tucks its head under the fabric of his coat.

  
“Not a fan, then? I suppose that’s fair. I shall abstain from forcing you to listen, then. I am not entirely certain how good this translation is, but my Norwegian is very rudimentary, so I have not yet been able to experience it in the original.”

  
-

  
“A bookshop man?”

  
Anathema's brows are raised high above her circular glasses. They are, as promised, out for drinks. Crowley is, as promised, paying. 

  
“A bookshop man,” Crowley confirms.

  
“Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds, all right? He had a bunch of flyers up, had taken an escaped snake he had found home. What kind of guy does that? And he didn’t seem like the kind to be into reptiles at all.”

  
“You do like snakes. All right. So he’s nice. What more?”

  
Crowley stalls by finishing his wine, pouring himself another glass from the bottle between them on the table. 

  
“Uh. He’s really shit at customer service. Like tried as hard as he could to get me to leave without buying anything short of straight up telling me to fuck off.”

  
“Sounds delightful.”

  
Her tone is insultingly sceptical. Crowley downs some more of his wine and debates the merits of a second bottle.

  
“It is,” he insists, “I was mainly going-"

  
He interrupts himself, realising he can’t actually tell her why he was there. She doesn’t, of course, know the truth about him. No one does. But he has a feeling she knows there is something a little off about him. The way she looks at him sometimes, like she wants to peel of the outer layer of him and get at the truth beneath his skin. Or perhaps he’s projecting and she just wants to know where he shops. Entirely possible. He is terribly stylish, after all.

  
“You were what?”

  
“I was looking for a place with a good section on gardening near me, and there came up a bunch of just incredibly terrible reviews of this place. Of the customer service especially, and I thought, you know, could do with a laugh. But I actually like this man. He dresses like he’s from the same century as you.”

  
“Hey,” protests Anathema, “I am the height of witchy fashion, I’ll have you know.”

  
“I’m sure,” he placates, “But this guy is just. It’s ridiculous looking but it also suits him so well?”

  
“So he’s hot, that is the main thing here?”

  
Crowley agonizes over the answer for a few moments, while Anathema takes the liberty of ordering another bottle for them.

  
“Hey, that’s my money you’re spending,” Crowley argues half heartedly.

  
“You can afford it,” she says, “you’re going to get a big sale on Thursday.”

And the thing is, he believes her. She keeps saying wild and wildly specific things like this and she’s always right. It’s downright creepy and incredibly impressive. He has asked her on multiple occasions why she hasn’t just done that with lottery numbers or something, but she insists that that’s just not how it works.

  
“I- all right, fine, whatever. Okay so. Yeah, sort of? He’s kind of pretty? Like bitchy and pretty but in a sort of soft middle aged man way? With this ridiculous white hair that looks like it’s bleached but he doesn’t look like the kind of guy to do that sort of thing at all. And it’s just... it’s such a strange and intriguing combination of traits and I just...”

  
“Just like like him?”

  
Crowley nods, folding his arms on the table and sinking far enough down in his chair that he can rest his chin on them.

  
“Have you actually talked to him? Beyond a customer employee exchange situation.”

  
“Err.”

  
He has sort of snuck into his shop and been talked at as a snake, but he isn’t entirely sure how to phrase that in a way Anathema will understand.

  
“Sort of?”

  
“Sort of.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Their new bottle arrives, and Anathema snatches it cruelly from his grasp, pouring herself a generous glass.

  
“Are you going to ask him out?” she demands, holding the bottle hostage until he gives her an answer she accepts.

  
Crowley shrugs.

  
“What if he’s not gay?”

  
“Then he might be bi,” she suggests, “or pan.”

  
Crowley makes a combination of grimaces and vague, wordless noises at her.

  
“Fine. Then what’s the worst that can happen? He turns you down?”

  
“Exactly!”

  
Anathema raises a perfect eyebrow at him.

  
“You’re a big boy, Crowley. You’ll live. Besides, did he give off straight vibes?”

  
“No,” Crowley admits.

  
He can’t imagine a straight man unironically looking like that. Also he had found the queer section and it was substantial, much more so than the gardening one, even if it was hidden away on the second floor.

  
“There you go, then. Ask him out.”

  
“I don’t think he actually likes me,” Crowley mutters, looking with intense focus down into the deep red of his wine, as if it holds all the answers he needs.

  
“Well, you’re an acquired taste,” Anathema tells him, pragmatic and rude as only an American can be.

  
“You like me,” he argues, “didn’t take us long to become friends.”

  
“Yes, but that’s because it was very clear from the start that you didn’t want to fuck me.”

  
“You were like twenty at the time, don’t be weird,” Crowley says with a grimace.

  
It’s not that he’s not into women sometimes too, but much as he likes him he could never imagine them together. It feels viscerally wrong in a way he can’t quite identify. Also she had already met Newt at this point, though of course he couldn’t know that.

  
“See, that’s why I liked you. Lots of guys wouldn’t have had an issue with that.”

  
“Fair. But all right. How do I, uh, make him acquire a taste for me?”

  
“Never use that phrase, for a start.”

  
“Noted.”

  
“Well, give me a moment to consult my cards. I don’t suppose you know his star sign?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is reading Ibsen's Gjengangere. I don't know what it's called in english. Ghosts? Revenants? Something like that.


	5. Mission Failed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes An Attempt

Crowley tries to ask Aziraphale Z. Fell out. It doesn’t go great. He follows Anathema’s advice, dresses up all sharp and nice, fancier than last time, all expensive designer pieces in sleek black with the faintest hint of red to bring out his hair. It’s always been his experience that he can talk almost anyone into anything if he’s just confident enough. It’s why he’s so good at sales, after all. But it doesn’t work on Aziraphale. Not at all.

He goes in the evening, a little before the shop is due to close. He knows, after all, that Aziraphale lives above it, and so is not likely to be in a rush to leave. Not all that likely to have plans, either, which is a little sad. Then again, he can respect being comfortable enough with one’s own company to spend time alone, reading. Crowley can’t do that. His thoughts are not nice things to be alone with.

The shop, fortuitously, is still open, and he saunters inside, all cool and absolutely not a bundle of nerves. Has he had a tiny drink for confidence? Maybe. But that was with lunch, a couple hours ago, not close enough to sabotage himself. He sees Aziraphale peek out from between two bookshelves, frown, and make himself scarce again. A good start? 

But when, after some inane questions about books, Crowley asks him whether he would like to go out to dinner or drinks with him, Aziraphale makes a face and asks why.

“Why? What do you mean why?”

He is glared at over tiny glasses that he is at least fifty percent sure don’t have an actual prescription in them.

“What makes you think I would like to go on a date with you?” Aziraphale demands over crossed arms.

Crowley doesn’t know what to say, hasn’t been this aggressively confronted in this sort of situation before. He’s been turned down before, sometimes politely,   
sometimes not, but those have been more expected responses.

“Err,” says Crowley, deeply glad he hadn’t thought to remove his sunglasses. 

“I dunno, I thought it might be fun?”

“Fun?” asks Aziraphale, “what do you imagine we might have in common?”

“Uhh. Snakes? And I like... some books....”

“Right,” says Aziraphale, looking unimpressed, “well, I’m afraid I don’t think your, ah, proposition will lead to anything good. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to close.”

“I- uh. Right. Sorry. Yeah. Get out of your way now, sorry.”

Crowley leaves, deflated, slinking out into the early evening sun. The door closes noisily behind him, and he hears the muted click of the sign being flipped to closed. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

He keeps his composure until he turns a corner, then he swears, leaning against a wall. Wishes he’d brought the Bentley because then, at least, he could be embarrassed and angry in the privacy of his own car. But the parking is never worth it, especially not to get somewhere so close. He gets out his phone, sending Anathema a series of emojis to express his thoughts on her advice, but all he gets in return is the double eye emoji.

On his way back to his flat he gets a cheap bottle of wine and some Chinese food, mentally preparing for a good sulk. He locks himself in, barely taking the time to shrug off his jacket and boots and pick up a glass before flinging himself onto the sofa. He pours himself a glass, opens the container, and flicks on Netflix, putting on the first episode of The Good Place. He’s watched it all before, but there’s something in watching something comfortable, something funny, something that won’t abruptly disappoint him.

It isn’t until the next day, as he sits nursing a quadruple cappuccino in his office, that he realises that he is being a little bit unfair. It’s not, after all, as if Aziraphale knows Crowley at all, not beyond their single interaction. Aziraphale knows a surprisingly nice and tame small snake, and a man who went into his shop once and then asked him out, and he knows these as two separate entities. Not that realising they are one and the same would help, of course. It would only make it worse. But it is, when Crowley thinks about it that way, a fair reaction. It is, even, quite weird of him. Borderline creepy? But that’s what snakes are, right? Creepy and sneaky and in league with Satan or whatever.

“What’s wrong with you, Crowley?”

Hastur's tone is full of disdain, a faint grimace on his pallid face. He has a shock of white hair and eyes so dark they are almost black and the combination is unsettling. He has worked here shorter than Crowley, but somehow acts as if he’s his manager.

“Nothing,” Crowley tells him, aiming for casual but ending up deep in sulky anyway.

“Maybe he’s finally realised we’re better than him,” suggests Ligur.

He’s Hastur opposite, visually, but their attitudes are twins, and Crowley has _begged_ Beelz to let him share an office with literally anyone else, even Dagon, but they seem to take some delight in torturing him, the bastard.

“About time, then,” Hastur says, but he doesn’t even smile, his face as sour as it always is.

“Don’t you two have some customers to scare off?” Crowley says, and buries himself in work yet again.

-

Aziraphale looks, once more, for the snake he hasn’t seen for five days. He needs someone to talk at. The shop is closed, and though Gabriel has been nagging him to meet and catch up, Aziraphale isn’t keen on being the recipient of his bragging. That’s the thing about being related to someone that successful and arrogant, you have to spend a lot of time listening to how well they’re doing, and be asked isn’t it about time you do something with your life as well. Something more impressive than running a deliberately unsuccessful bookshop. Start a chain of shops, perhaps. Begin going running. Tidy up the shop a bit, make it look modern. Get some new electronics in there. Aziraphale hates it.

So he doesn’t call Gabriel, as he’s been promising to do for a while, or Michael, or Uriel or any of his other cousins, some of whom are named for more normal sounding biblical figures than others. They all come from the same place, the same large extended family of extremely religious people. A small cult, others have called it. Aziraphale thinks that’s taking it a bit far, but he is certainly willing to admit that it wasn’t a good or healthy environment. It all went to shit nearly thirty years ago now, but their generation does still check up on each other, even if some do it as a manager berating an employee rather than an older relative checking on a younger one.

Aziraphale settles in his favourite armchair with a book and a cup of hot cocoa. He opens it, and stares blankly at the index for a few moments. It has been years since anyone asked him out. More years than he is entirely comfortable admitting, even to himself. But it would have been stupid to accept because of that. He still has standards, after all. He isn’t quite sure what they are these days, but he’s certainly not about to accept a proposition from the first sleazy guy who asks.

It is not, precisely, that Aziraphale isn’t lonely. He is. He is so lonely it makes him ache sometimes, but at the same time spending time with people is so very draining. And there aren’t any, really, that he actually likes all that much. Who share his interest in books, and history and language and food, or who seem to like him at all. It’s easier, really, to let himself disappear into books. They only rarely demand anything back.

He reads the same short sentence over and over again, never quite able to understand, to internalise what it says. Looks out the window and the dark creeping into the sky and feeling, as he has for a little while, quite lost. 

Had the man been handsome? Aziraphale isn’t sure. He wore sunglasses, not taking them off for even a minute, not either of the times. It doesn’t seem like something a respectful person would do, asking someone out without even looking them in the eye. His hair had been striking, certainly. Red and very long for a man their age. Aziraphale has the vague idea that it had suited him, and that this had been surprising. He supposes the man was well dressed, but it was not in a way that appealed to Aziraphale. All blacks, rather dreary. As if attending some perpetual funeral. No, he didn’t like that look in the slightest. It won’t do to dwell on that, he had already   
said no, and by the tone of the man’s voice he had been disappointed enough that he wasn’t likely to try again. Good. It was good, wasn’t it?

-

The day after, he goes for a walk. It’s good, sometimes, to see people who aren’t the sort to frequent a dusty old bookshop. Well, technically he’s only had it for ten years, but it took over from another, older bookshop, which had been there since the late eighteen hundreds some time, and so he feels it counts. The dust is as ancient as some of the books. In a back room he even has some old rolls of parchment from the twelfth century. Scholarly documents by someone who went on to become a pope. He’s quite proud of his collection.

His walk takes him to the same spot in the park again, but there’s no snake there today either. It only seems to be there on the weekend, which is strange timing for a reptile, who, presumably, has very little concept of time. Perhaps it is something to do with the angle of the sun, or perhaps it is still lurking somewhere in the shop. It is difficult to say. Either way, he waits there for a minute or two, until he becomes aware of how it might look, him standing there staring at a stone.

The ducks swarm towards him when he sits down on the bench, used to his frequent offering of Good Healthy Duck Treats (he read a book about it), and opens his arms in apology and surrender. A large squirrel scurries from one bush to another, and it too looks briefly in his direction. Aziraphale feels guilty, looking from the rustling paper bag in his hand to the hungry beaks. Hesitates. Oh, well, if he can indulge from time to time, surely so can the ducks? And besides, his croissant is actually quite dry and disappointing. 

He breaks of tiny flaky bits, tossing it into the crowd of seafowl, who erupt into a ravenous and frenzied hunt for the pastry crumbs. A pair of swans, one black and one white, swim past, glancing at the spectacle and seeming to decide that it is not worth the trouble. A seagull sat on the bench next to Aziraphale seems to have a similar idea, taking off and heading toward where two very suspicious looking men are huddled together, whispering and tossing healthy, gluten free and almost totally ignored chunks of bread to another delegation of ducks.

Aziraphale looks around the park, and swears he sees a tall, skinny black and red shape disappear behind a tree. Hmm. Maybe there is something to the rumours of covert meetings in this park after all. Something about it makes him feel acutely alone, here on this half of the bench, surrounded by demanding ducks. He takes out his telephone, and looks at it, not even getting as far as typing in his code. Who would understand? No one. No one at all.

-

 **Anathema:** so I take it bookshop man said no?

 **Crowley:** yup

 **Crowley:** gonna throw myself into the thames now, please write me a good eulogy

 **Anathema:** Drama queen. 

**Crowley:** u weren’t there. he seemed insulted i even asked

 **Anathema:** Please don’t try to type like a young person

 **Crowley:** >:P

 **Anathema:** Please. Anyway, it can’t have been all that bad. From what you said it doesn’t seem like he would be all that rude about it

 **Crowley:** he didn’t even say no, just asked me why on eartj id think that was a good idea. 

**Anathema:** in like a str8 way?

 **Crowley:** god no. there were tiny reading glasses from the late 1800s and a tartan bowtie. the mans def queer. 

**Anathema:** so just in a hey I don’t know you what the fuck are you doing asking me out kind of way?

 **Crowley:** I come to you in this my time of need and this is how you treat me???

 **Anathema:** ye

 **Crowley:** >:P

 **Crowley:** but yeah pretty much. Which, fair, but also rude

 **Anathema:** weeeeell

 **Crowley:** whose side are you meant to be on here

 **Anathema:** weeeeell

 **Crowley:** terrible. Youre the most horrible sort of traitor. Meant to feel sorry for me, you are. Im firing you as my best friend.

 **Anathema:** im your best friend? Sad.

 **Crowley:** shut uo

 **Crowley:** up


	6. Obligations

Crowley takes some time after his horrible, cruel and entirely unwarranted rejection, which he largely spends being disappointed and frequently mildly drunk. He goes out to bars, tries to pick people up, but his heart’s not in it, and he finds himself autosabotaging all his attempts. One weekend he spends entirely as a snake, laying under his heat lamp with his laptop hooked up to his telly playing a Golden Girls marathon with no breaks. It is convenient, on occasion, being a snake. Rarely have to eat, for one thing, though when he went back to a more mammalian shape on Monday morning he had the urge to eat a whole weekend’s worth of calories for breakfast.

He does also does some thinking, which his scaled head doesn’t do as well as his more skin based one. It’s something about over all brain size, he thinks, and also the overpowering need to laze in the warm sun, no thoughts only snake. 

Okay. So, maybe his strategy was flawed. Maybe seducing someone while spending most of your quality time together as a secret snake is a somewhat unfair starting point. Can he come off as kind of sleazy? Yes, absolutely, it’s something he cultivates, given his chosen career. You rather need to be, he finds. Is it understandable that Aziraphale Ziraphale (presumably) Fell isn’t into that? Also a grudging yes. Frustrating, but true.

What he needs, Crowley thinks, is a plan. A weird bookshop man seduction plan. He starts to make a list of what he knows of weird bookshop man. He does this while wearing his blue-tooth headset and making agreeing noises, as if he’s in a phone call, and Hastur and Ligur watch him suspiciously for signs of weakness, anything they can report to Beelz to ruin Crowley’s reputation as the best salesperson. 

_**1: Things I know about Aziraphale Z? Fell:**  
1a: has bookshop  
1b: nice to snakes  
1c: Christian? Or only using the language  
1d: not nice to customers  
1e: wildly old fashioned both tech-wise and fashion-wise  
1f: prtotective of his books  
1g: some brand of queer  
1h: lonely? :(  
1i: good hair good smile good face  
1j: bad at opening hours  
1k: doesnt speak norwegian (relateable) but likes ibsen anyway (not relateable)  
1l: just the ,ost horrendous graphic design skills imaginable  
1m: doesnt like being asked out randomly  
1n: probably the kind of man who gets excited about nice stationary and uses an old fashioned pen_

_**2: Things to do to make him like me when human:**  
2a: talk shit about chain bookshops  
2b: apologise for asking him out? Either more or less awkward.  
2c: give books??  
2d: buy books??? maybe not??  
2e: ???????  
2f: how?_

His success so far is moderate at best. It’s been so very long since he had proper _feelings_ for someone, and it didn’t go too well the last time either. That’s the thing, right, about having a big secret you can never tell anyone, it gets tricky in long term relationships. And people can usually tell when you’re lying to them.  
In the end, he settles on step 2b. Apologise. Horrific and painful though it is sure to be. He does give himself another two days to psych himself up, though, to work out what he’s going to tell him, so he doesn’t just say whatever stupid shit his mind comes up with on the fly. 

-

On Monday, Aziraphale’s luck and dedicated avoidance tactics finally fail, and he is pressured into going out for dinner with Gabriel. He’s the only one in London right then, and so it is just the two of them. They meet at a rather nice little French place, at Aziraphale’s suggestion. If he has to sit through at least an hour of Gabriel talking about how well he’s doing, at least he can be experiencing some nice food and wine while he does so.

“Aziraphale!”

Gabriel’s voice always does tend towards booming, and Aziraphale smiles self-consciously as he makes his way between the tables to where Gabriel sits. He smiles, too, more confidently, at the waitress, who nods back at him. He comes here often enough to be recognised by the staff, which is nice. 

Their table is in the innermost corner of the restaurant, and Gabriel must have been there a little while, because there is a glass of one of those awful low cal beers he insists on next to the lit candles on the table in front of him. Aziraphale puts on a smile and goes to sit down, but Gabriel gets up, pulling him into an aggressive and uncomfortable hug, patting him on the back hard enough that Aziraphale briefly wonders whether he’s performing a misguided heimlich manoeuveur. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, pulling away and sitting down, “it’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”

He hopes he sounds more convincing than he feels. Smiling nervously he scans the wine list.

“Wine, Aziraphale? Sure you don’t want something a little lighter?” 

“Oh, I don’t think one more glass of wine is going to make a difference at this juncture, do you?” Aziraphale says with a comfort he does not feel.

Gabriel always does this. Never goes quite so far as to tell Aziraphale outright that he needs to lose weight, at the very least not recently, but everything is little incredibly unsubtle hints. He spent a few years working for a company in America and lost any sense of polite vagueness he may have been capable of beforehand. And look, Aziraphale doesn’t dislike his body. It’s perfectly functional, and it can fit a lot of crêpes in it, which he feels is really the most important criterium. He doesn’t, however, love other people’s reactions to it. Especially not Gabriel, who keeps pointedly gifting him gym memberships every year.

A waitress stops by with the menu, and they are both silent for a bit, considering.

“I’ll have the coq au vin,” Aziraphale tells the waitress, “and whatever wine you’d recommend with it.”

Gabriel gives him a very pointed look, and Aziraphale gives him his most hostile customer service smile in return. He orders something terribly healthy and not all that appealing sounding, because what else would he do, and they are left in peace once more.

“You know I’m just worried for your health, Aziraphale, we’re not twenty any more.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure I’d want to live forever if all I could have was plain chicken and broccoli and light beer,” Aziraphale replies, saying it like a joke but meaning it nonetheless.

Gabriel looks disappointed. All downturned face, like he’s an old fashioned actor having to telegraph his emotions as loudly as possible with his face. Aziraphale hates this section of their dinners, where it’s all about how Aziraphale isn’t taking care of himself, isn’t doing anything with his life -good heavens, Gabriel, I’m nearly fifty, it’s a bit late for a career change, don’t you think?- and isn’t, and this is Gabriel’s favourite phrase these last years, _living up to his potential_. Aziraphale isn’t entirely clear on what this potential is supposed to be, but he gathers it is to do with earning more money and being able to have employees whom he can tell what to do.

“So, how is work?” Aziraphale asks, and that ought to keep Gabriel going for a good half hour, at least.

He’s in management, though whom and what he manages seems to change quite often. He invariably just refers to the places as work or the company, and frankly Aziraphale has stopped paying attention. Which isn’t very nice of him, he realises, but Gabriel does helpfully remind him of so many details incredibly frequently, and though he will feel bad about it later, Aziraphale still can’t bring himself to care right now.

The food helps, when it comes. It is, as usual here, quite exquisite, and though he continues making noises of agreement, nodding where appropriate and asking the vaguest of questions where it sounds right, the plate of wine cooked chicken is where his attention fully rests.

“And how are the others? Have you seen them lately?” Aziraphale asks, when Gabriel’s monologue seems at last to be slowing down.

That keeps him going for another half hour, by which time he has, on behalf of them both and firmly against Aziraphale’s will said no thank you to the offer of a dessert menu, and frowned in displeasure when Aziraphale ordered himself another glass of wine. 

“How’s the book business?” Gabriel asks, at last, as they are finishing their drinks and waiting for someone to flag down to let them pay.

“Oh, you know,” says Aziraphale, “I went to this auction in Southern France and acquired these simply stunning first editions-”

“I meant the shop part, not your personal collection.”

“Oh, ah, yes. Well, you know, I think it’s going splendidly.”

“Yeah?” asks Gabriel, “finally get those sales up, huh?”

“Err.”

“Aziraphale. You have to sell books to make money.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale reluctantly agrees, “and I do. Some. I would just-”

“You’re not running a library. If you want, the offer to help still stands-”

“And I appreciate it,” Aziraphale says, and he does, the gesture is nice, even if they have wildly different ideas of success, “but I am very content with how it is.”

“Content,” Gabriel says, “sure. But you could be-”

They are interrupted by a young woman coming to accept their payment. She says bonsoir and merci but pronounces it like she’s never left London. Which is fair enough, Aziraphale has never quite managed to get the hang of French either, however much he’s tried. He knows how to order crêpes, though, and after all, what else is there of true import?

“Well,” Aziraphale says, eager to get away from the topic of how to make his shop more _efficient_ and _lucrative_ and all those other words Gabriel seems so fond of, “it has been lovely catching up Gabriel, but I’m afraid I must be off. Early start tomorrow, you know how it is.”

Gabriel, who has seen Aziraphale’s opening hours, and is fully aware he lives over his shop, is kind enough not to argue the point. Instead they say their goodbyes and all the necessary bits of small talk that follows a meeting. At least they didn’t talk too much about Aziraphale’s personal life. Gabriel has been dating someone in some equivalent position to his at another company, very much a star crossed lovers situation, and he keeps insisting Aziraphale meet someone so they can go on a double date, which to Aziraphale sounds like the most awkward and mortifying situation any human being could find themselves in. No, it’s best to stay single. Best not to think about any of that sort of nonsense at all. If he needs to feel romance he will simply read some Austen. That’s all he needs.


	7. Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley manages to force himself to apologise

Aziraphale is stocking books. Or, well, Aziraphale is meant to be stocking books, but he opened this one up half an hour ago and has been sitting on the little stool he uses to reach the uppermost shelves reading since. It’s a relatively new novel, from an author he enjoys, and quite an exciting blend of genres. He hears the faint rustling of pages from customers, the occasional murmur or buzzing of a mobile phone, the bell ringing as people come and go. He has been forced to part with three volumes today, but they were all ones he has nicer versions of in his personal collection, and so it is a consequence of the running of the shop that he can forgive for today.

So the next time the bell rings, he doesn’t look up. The shop is quite busy, as it is, and he hasn’t any significant worries of people making off with his first editions.

A few minutes later Aziraphale hears someone clearing the throat behind him. He turns to look.

“Oh. It’s you.”

Behind him is the tall, skinny redhead in the sunglasses who asked him out. He looks less confident this time, more sheepish, although Aziraphale can see he is clutching another book on house plants in his arms, as if threatening to buy it.

“Hi, yeah, look,” the man says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, messing it up just a little.

His eyes are a beautiful golden amber sort of colour, and Aziraphale almost gasps. Not quite, though. This man clearly has plenty of self confidence, no need for Aziraphale to add to it.

“So, yeah,” continues the man, rushing through filler words as if he means to get through them all, “I wanted to uh"

He pauses, makes some rather incomprehensible noises and vague gestures. Aziraphale frowns at him.

“Apologise,” he seems to settle on, “for being so forward and, uh, weird. I realise it must be pretty... not great. Sort of ambushing you while at work. And I nngh. Uh. Gnhhn.. I’m sorry. I would stop bothering you and go shop somewhere else but you do have some really interesting stuff in your gardening books section, and I’d hate to not to be able to uuuhhh that uh access. But um. I do understand if you’d prefer me not coming back. Also, uh.”

He’s very clearly deeply uncomfortable, and that is sort of endearing. And it does make the apology feel very genuine, as opposed to a sort of attempt at a second chance, which is nice. The man holds out a crumpled paper bag.

“Apologetic offering of baked goods.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “oh, thank you, that’s very kind.”

He accepts the bag and looks inside. Chocolate croissant. Good.

“Yeah?” the man says.

“Yes, ah. Apology accepted, I suppose. I do appreciate it.”

“Right. Yeah. Cool. I'm Crowley, by the way.”

Aziraphale gives him a careful smile. Thinks that this man- that Crowley, is far more charming when he is uneasily running his hand through his hair and messing it up than when he’s trying too hard.

“Well, nice to meet you, Crowley. I would recommend you perhaps introduce yourself before asking someone to dinner next time.”

“Ughhnn. Gh. Ye- yeah, uh. Will do?”

Aziraphale considers for a moment.

“And you are welcome back to the shop. I see you have found another book you wish to, ah, purchase?”

Crowley looks confused for a moment, brows raised, and then he seems to notice the book he is clutching. It's an old one, from the seventies, going by the cover, about the practise of talking to plants.

"Intending to socialise your plants into growing?" asks Aziraphale, nodding at it.

"Huh? Uh. Mm. Yeah. Though I might give shouting them into submission a go, because not even the expensive plant food is keeping them quite up to standards so far."

"Err, I'm not sure the techniques are quite so aggressive, but I wish you the best of luck," Aziraphale tells him, surprised at his own sincerity.

He turns slightly back to his books again, trying to signal that this was nice, but he would quite like to enjoy the apologetic pastry in peace now, thank you very much. 

"Err."

"Yes? Was there anything else?"

Crowley brandishes the book.

"Am I allowed to buy it? Need to give you money."

"Oh, right, yes, of course."

Aziraphale hurries past him towards the till.

"So," Crowley asks, as Aziraphale busies himself with the sometimes challenging mechanisms of his antique register, "what happened with the snake? Did you find the owner?"

"Ah, err. The situation has... resolved itself, yes," Aziraphale replies with a nervous smile, because he absolutely has not found the owner, but he also has not seen the snake for over a week.

Crowley looks oddly amused by this, and Aziraphale can't quite work out why. Perhaps he knows things about snakes that Aziraphale doesn't. 

"Ah, well. A bookshop snake would have been cool, but I suppose it is not to be," Crowley says, grinning, pulling his sunglasses back into place and only moderately messing his hair up again.

Aziraphale has never heard anyone use the phrase before, but he supposes it is one arrived at naturally. Still. Crowley has almost the same eye colour as the snake, come to think of it, only slightly more muted, more natural. But he is seeing parallels where there are none. Perhaps they are contacts, hiding more normal browns or blues, although Aziraphale didn't see an edge to them. Then again, he didn't look that closely.

"Right, thanks then."

"Yes, good luck with the plant whispering," Aziraphale tells him distractedly, even as he watches him closely as he leaves.

He wonders whether he's doing that thing with his hips on purpose. It doesn't look quite like normal walking, this sort of swaying motion, but it is almost mesmerising. 

-

Crowley manages to keep up his façade of being not a mumbling idiot until he is a few streets away, at which point he makes a strangled noise which makes a passing old lady look at him with concern. He waves her off and starts trying to breathe like a normal person, to school his features into something less like flustered panic.

Right. That had gone- well. It had gone. He brought up that phrase Aziraphale had used, had said to him when he was a snake, which had clearly been a mistake. It had seemed to puzzle him, at the very least. But it's not like he's going to suspect, at least unless he's some sort of weird conspiracy theory person, which doesn't seem like it's the case.

 **Crowley:** talked 2 bookshopman again. said sry. need drinks.

 **Anathema:** can b @ urs in 45.

 **Crowley:** right, i do see how that's a lot. Ok. See you then.

He picks up some indian take away and two bottles of wine on his way home. He stops outside the tesco on his road, considers, and gets a thing of ice cream too. Chocolate with more pieces of chocolate inside. Chocolateception. He's not usually all that much for sweets but it feels right today.

Anathema swishes into his flat in a flurry of long skirts and coat exactly 43 minutes later.

"Give me the details," she demands in lieu of a greeting.

"Good evening to you too," Crowley says sarcastically, and she smiles brightly at him.

Her hair is styled extra witchy today, flowing like a short cape behind her as she moves, along with innumerable sheer layers. She flops down on his sofa, looks at wine glasses set out expectantly. She is her own brand of ridiculous and he loves her.

"Bewitch anyone into a toad today?" He asks, "cast any curses?"

"Only one, on you, not telling you what it does."

"Oh, you're to blame for me making a fool of myself, then, good to know."

He grins as he pours wine into their glasses, placing a steaming aliminium tray of curry in front of her. 

"You're usually pretty good at that yourself," she points out.

He makes a face at her, settling down next to her and curling around his glass of wine. If pressed, he will admit to some slightly serpentine behaviour even in human form. Not, of course, that anyone knows to press him about it.

"But tell. How did you make yourself look spectacularly dumb this time, Crowboy?"

"Has anyone told you you're mean?"

"Frequently, yes, but don't stall."

"Right. Okay. So. Went and apologised to him."

"Good. Good start."

"His name's Aziraphale, by the way. Not Weird Bookshopman."

Anathema makes a face.

"Yeah, I know, but you have absolutely no moral high ground there, miss Anathema Device."

"Cruel but fair," she acknowledges. 

Crowley stalls more by shovelling rice and spicy lentils into his mouth.

"Right. So. Apologised. Was permitted to buy a book, easier this time, which I think is good. Only made one joke about snakes."

"An improvement," Anathema says.

"Yep. Well. Did spend a solid day planning what I was gonna say and forgot all of it as soon as I saw him."

"Hmm. Really like him, huh?"

Crowley makes a frustrated noise, leaning his head back against the sofa.

"I do. He's weird and endearing and so aggressively not trying to be liked that it circles right around to being likeable. He liked the apology pastry I got him."

"Well yeah, everyone likes apologetic baked goods."

"Yeah."

"I'm happy for you, old man, if you can manage to make it work."

He flicks a piece of rice at her.

"Don't be sincere. Doesn't suit you."

"Fine. You're ridiculous and sappy and pathetic."

"That's the Anathema I know and love."

-

Crowley curls around the branch of a small branch he bought for this exact purpose. It brings him high enough to be face to petal with his plants, in perfect position to hiss at them. He's read a good chunk of the book he bought from Aziraphale, and he is ready to put it into practise.

It's not the words, but the tone and vibe that affects the plants, apparently, and so Crowley figures a hiss is as good as a word, and fangs are more traditionally scary than blunt human teeth. It doesn't have any immediate effect, but then, how is one meant to know, with plants? It's not as if they are going to tremble in fear and grow before his very eyes, after all.

It does feel cathartic, though, this approach. Getting out his frustration at the plants, who won't grow quite as well as he feels they should, to reward the hard work he puts into taking care of them. Most of the frustration is directed at himself, sure, at the ways in which he fucks up for himself, but that's harder to deal with. Verbally abusing greenery feels more appropriate.

Anathema had had some good points, as she usually does. It's unfair, really. Because he knows how easy she had it with Newt, who had been in love with her from the minute they met. Why she likes him back is still somewhat of a mystery to Crowley to be honest, but they've been happily together for three years now, so they must have something figured out, he thinks. 

But he has got to take it slow, that's the main takeaway. Be patient and not too much or too eager or too everything he knows he sometimes is. Not be less, not precisely, but more palatable, perhaps. He can do that. He can probably do that.


	8. Mild and Affectionate Spycraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snespionage (snake espionage)

In the following weeks, Crowley continues to stop by the bookshop, once a week at the most (he is not, it turns out, a particularly fast or dedicated reader), and he always exchanges a few friendly-ish words with Aziraphale. He doesn’t push it, though, or he tries not to. But he read something once about things and people you see more often are the ones you start to like, so he tries to make himself into a people Aziraphale will see often enough to start to like him. He considers bringing pastries every time, only because of how Aziraphale had seemed to light up at that, but that’s a bit creepy, he concludes, feels a bit too much like he’s trying to bribe him into liking him, and that’s not what he wants at all.

He does also do some mild spying on him, which he supposes one could argue is creepy. But it’s not, not really. All he does is go to his usual spot and snake out, but instead of lazing on a nice sunny rock, he winds his way up into a tree, hanging around a branch and looking down. Because Aziraphale does still come here, and though he always checks the rock to see if Crowley is there, he spends time in the park anyway.

Crowley learns a lot, watching him like that. He learns that although Aziraphale is not very good with children, he still tries very hard. He brings proper seeds and stuff to feed the ducks, rather than just bits of bread. He always sits incredibly properly and upright, and it is both ridiculous and kind of cute. He spends an hour, once, listening to an old lady telling him about her husband who died in the great war. Crowley wonders if this is where he gets his socialisation, from strangers in the park. But then, who is Crowley to judge? He has Anathema, yes, and by extension, he supposes, Newt. Anathema is a good, proper friend, but beyond her? He has colleagues he dislikes, and who dislike him, but who nevertheless occasionally socialise with him because that’s the thing one does.

One such day, after he has watched Aziraphale politely listen to a gentleman who insists the end of the world is nigh for twenty minutes, his polite smile growing ever more hostile, he slithers down the tree again. He winds his way through the grass until he reaches the path, where he rears up and hisses at the man, who jumps, and swears, and backs off, searching for another innocent bookshopman to bother.

“Oh, hello there,” Aziraphale says, his face lighting up, and he stretches a hand down to Crowley.

He curls around Aziraphale’s warm hand, and feels guilty at sneaking affection from the man like this. But it is, he argues with himself, so very nice. And it is one of the few times anyone has ever touched his scales with such gentle care.

The first time Crowley remembers turning into a snake, he was five years old. He was out in a stretch of wood behind his house, playing with a friend, hunting for hidden treasures beneath fallen branches and using sticks as swords. The friend had turned away, for a moment, and Crowley doesn’t remember why he felt the need to shed his limbs, but he did, and when his friend turned back she screamed. She threw a rock at him, and ran away, all the while shouting his name. And he learned, very quickly, that people didn’t like snakes, and probably wouldn’t like him very much if they found out he was one. 

“Where have you been, hmm?” Aziraphale asks, holding Crowley up so he can look into his eyes.

He flicks his tongue out at him, and Aziraphale smiles. His cheeks crinkly up when he does, sun glinting in his greyish eyes, making them almost blue. Crowley tries to tell him that he is beautiful, but he is not entirely sure the message comes across.

“You know, I looked for you for hours,” Aziraphale admonishes, and Crowley tries his best to look apologetic, though this too is challenging in this shape.

A finger pets carefully across his head from between his eyes and down his neck, and it feels, he thinks, very very good. He wants so very badly for Aziraphale to know that it is him, to show him the same affection in both his forms, but he knows, of course, that he can never tell him. Humans don’t like when other humans aren’t always, well, human. And, he considers, Aziraphale might feel violated, might feel like Crowley has taken advantage of him. Has he? He isn’t sure, and there is no one to ask. It is not exactly a common problem. Although perhaps there are more shapeshifters out there, who all also live in secret, hidden from the world and each other.

“You know, that man kept trying to tell me the world was going to end, that war and famine and pestilence and death were coming. It was a little rude of you, hissing at him like that, but I appreciate it all the same. I’ve never- I don’t-”

He falters, and his eyes glaze over as he continues whatever train of thought he is on without Crowley. He winds himself tighter around his arm, squeezing in an attempt at comfort, because it does not seem like something that makes Aziraphale happy. Aziraphale looks at him again, shakes his head as if to dislodge unpleasant thoughts.

“But you, my serpentine friend, are somewhat of a mystery. Do you live in this park, hmm? Have you no owner?”

Crowley has to make a concerted effort not to aggressively shake his head. An owner? What is this, the eighteen hundreds? But no, that is far too human a movement, and it will no doubt unsettle him. And, well, Aziraphale does not seem to expect an answer. If he did, that would have been more worrying, perhaps.

“Do they chip snakes? I suppose I ought, really, to bring you somewhere. You can’t just live in a park, I don’t think.”

Crowley writhes uncomfortably. He does not want to get trapped in a tank at a vet’s or animal shelter. It happened once before, when he got careless, and he missed two days of work trying to get out. 

“All right, all right,” Aziraphale tells him placatingly, “no taking you anywhere to see if you have a chip, I promise. You do seem quite able to take care of yourself, little one.”

And he is, isn’t he? God, he can’t be letting praise for what Aziraphale assumes is a normal, stupid snake make him feel good, that’s pathetic. But the way he says it, his voice so very soft, his smile gentle, the soft touch of warmth on his scales… It is hard not to bask in his attention. It is hard not to focus too much on the thought that he needs to make Aziraphale look at him like this when he’s human, too. Perhaps he needs to try being cuter? But then, snakes aren’t traditionally thought to be cute, although he does follow a couple of sninstagrammers (snake instagrammers) who post a lot of incredibly adorable little ball pythons, so they are, he supposes, to the right people. 

“Do you mind,” Aziraphale asks, “if I take another photograph of you? Your scales look so pretty in this light.”

Crowley preens, angling himself in front of the phone camera, so the sunlight catches on his belly scales, bright red and almost luminous now. He only wishes Aziraphale would get a better phone so the photographs wouldn’t look so terrible. The found pet poster Aziraphale had made, a copy of which hangs on Crowley’s fridge and makes him smile like an idiot whenever he sees it, looks absolutely terrible, with at most two pixels per scale. Still, he appreciates it. He likes the thought that Aziraphale has an entire album on his phone that are just pictures of him, even if it’s weird, even if he doesn’t know it’s him.

“You know,” Aziraphale tells him, “I met a man with a snake tattooed on his face. I think you two would like each other.”

Crowley looks directly into the camera lens. 

Aziraphale’s phone buzzes and he frowns, tapping the screen with the slow precision of an octogenarian who has just gotten their first mobile phone. Absurd. Absurd and irritatingly endearing. 

“Oh dear,” murmurs Aziraphale, “oh, I had better go. I hadn’t intended to stay quite so long, but you are a very dear little one. Here, let me just…”

He gets up, and crouches down, lowering his arm so Crowley can slither down into the grass again. He attempts, valiantly, to look sad and forlorn, but snake faces are not made for such expressions, and so he accomplishes only looking up at the sweet man, as he gives his a last careful stroke of fingers over scales.

“Be safe, little one,” he tells him, and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this fic is making me miss living in england, however much it is going to shit. also sorry i haven't been updating as frequently as i've intended to, but i have slightly stronger plans for my other fic, so it is a bit easier to write.


	9. Tea and Compromises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have another talk, and Aziraphale chats with an old friend

Crowley walks into the bookshop, and as usual he sees a range of expressions pass across Aziraphale's face, few of them identifiable. He decides in a moment of reckless bravado to confront him.

"Hi," he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, as Aziraphale does seem to like it when he does that.

"Hello, Crowley."

His voice is painfully neutral, his face blandly polite.

"Look, I have to ask. Do you mind me coming here? Is it too weird? Just- just say the word and I'll stop. I've got amazon prime, I can probably get old weird plant books elsewhere."

"It's not... it isn't weird no," Aziraphale says carefully.

"Then what's wrong?" Crowley demands, perhaps a little more forcefully than he intended, so he adds, more softly, "you always make this face when you see me."

He tries and fails to demonstrate. 

"What's that about?"

"Well," Aziraphale replies, clearly somewhat uncomfortable, "you see the thing is you... well, you keep buying my books."

"Yes," Crowley agrees, a little purposefully obtuse, wanting to make Aziraphale say it out loud, "this is a bookshop."

"I know," Aziraphale says, looking a little pained, "I would just rather... rather you didn't, really."

"You run a bookshop," Crowley repeats to confirm, "but you don't actually want anyone to buy your books."

"Precisely," Aziraphale replies brightly.

"Then why not, I dunno, start a library or something?"

"Well, first off, then I would have to let the customers take the books home, and then, well. There's all sorts of dangers in a home. Spilled tea, creased pages, accidental ink stains. No, it wouldn't do at all. Besides, I believe you need a degree to be a librarian, and I don't. Well, not the right kind, anyway."

"Oh?" Crowley says, sensing an opportunity to learn more about him, "what do you have a degree in, then?"

"Theology," Aziraphale admits, looking just a tad wistful, "though I wish I had been brave enough to do English instead."

"Yeah?" Asks Crowley, "why didn't you?"

Aziraphale shrugs, and looks away.

"I had a... very religious family, growing up. There were Expectations."

Crowley is struck suddenly by the urge to hug him, or to wrap himself around him again, in comfort. He doesn't, because that would be weird. Instead he gives him a sympathetic smile, and wonders at the past tense. But it is too early, still, to ask, he thinks. So instead he comes up with a solution.

"Would it be okay of I came here to read instead? I promise not to spill anything on the books."

And Aziraphale brightens again.

"Oh yes, that's much better."

There are a couple of comfy and antique looking armchairs in the shop, and so Crowley, once he has found a book he's interested in, settles in one of them. By complete and utter coincidence, it is also one from which he can see Aziraphale, who is hard at work inspecting the contents of a book on top of a stack of others which he is, presumably, meant to be shelving.

Crowley, of course, being in sales, has full understanding for Aziraphale 's dislike of customers, even if it comes from a different angle. He, for example, has a job that depends entirely on making customers buy what he sells, as indeed do most people making their living selling things. But still, customers are difficult, and resistant to change, especially when it comes to new technology. They also almost never know what they're talking about, but because they have the money, Crowley has to be nice to them. It's a bad arrangement, really.

He spends at least as much of his time sneaking surreptitious glances at Aziraphale as he does reading. It might be noticeable, just a bit, because a young woman browsing gives him A Look once when he turns back to his book, but there is a rainbow pin on her bag, so he's pretty sure she just thinks he's a bit useless at flirting. Which, harsh but fair, at least when Aziraphale is involved. When there are proper feelings involved. 

He has read a chapter and a half on the origins of proper French gardens by the time he realises he has processed exactly nothing of it. Well, he'll live. It's getting toward closing time, he thinks, and he longs to again invite Aziraphale out, but he doesn't. He just puts the book back and thanks Aziraphale for this much more economically sound and weird way to use the bookshop. Be nice. Be normal. That's the way. Be human, too.

-

"How was Italy?" Aziraphale asks Tracy, blowing the steam from his cup of tea.

She has just gotten back from a sort of preemptive honeymoon with her not (yet) husband, a baffling and antagonistic old man who is very interested in exorcisms and the persecution of witches. This, Aziraphale feels, is quite strange given that Tracy's more savoury job is as a medium. But they do seem to be terribly happy together, and who, after all, is he to judge.

"Oh, it was lovely, absolutely lovely, my dear, although Shadwell was, oh, well he warmed up to it, after a time."

"Well, that's good," Aziraphale offers, "and what did you do? What did you see? How was the pasta?"

And so he listens to her talk about gelato and pizza and piazzas and pompeii for a good half hour, interspersed with tales of Shadwell mistaken particularly enthusiastic Catholicism for witchcraft, and nearly getting them thrown out of several churches. He smiles and nods and wishes, fervently, that he too could go, could experience that, but somehow it feels a silly thing, to travel alone. And there's the bookshop to look after. He can't very well close for weeks on end for no good reason, and the thought of actually employing someone fills him with dread.

"And how have you been, my dear? Oh, I didn't mean to go on like that, but really, it was such a lovely time."

She had shown him a solid fifteen different small grainy photos of cats she had met there on her mobile phone, but it is, he thinks, part of her charm.

"And I am delighted to hear about it," he assures her with a small smile, "but I have been fine. The same as always."

"Yes?" She asks, seeming almost worried, "nothing new in your life?"

There doesn't need to be, he thinks, and he is perfectly content with the way things are, and he rather wishes people would stop asking in that slightly worried and catious voice they use. He's fine. It's all fine. 

"Nothing of note, no. I briefly considered aquiring a bookshop snake, after I met a particularly nice little one, but I doubt such a creature would be happy around books. I don't believe they have the eyesight necessary to read, for one."

Tracy looks amused.

"I wouldn't think so, no."

Aziraphale busies himself pouring them both another cup of tea, adding the smallest squeeze of lemon to his, a few drops of honey to hers.

"No one new in your life then, since last we spoke?" She asks, clearly still intent on interrogating him. 

He can't find it in himself to mind, not really, not when she has been such a good friend to him. Admittedly she has forcibly invited him to a dinner where he was questioned about everything from the amount of nipples he had to how he thought one should best burn a witch (on the pressumption that he, "knowing about god stuff and the like", would share a passion for burning practisers of the occult) by Shadwell, but he doesn't think her intentions were bad.

"There was a man who asked me out," he admits, studying the swirling patterns of steam rising from his cup with more focus than is, strictly speaking, necessary.

"Oh!" Tracy exclaims in delight, "oh, tell me everything!"

Aziraphale shrugs, uncomfortably. 

"I said no, of course. I didn't know him, and he seemed a bit... I don't know. There seemed to be something a bit off about him. He had a tattoo on his face. Sensible people don't get those, do they? Even if they are rather nice looking."

"Err. The tattoos, I mean," he adds quickly, lest Tracy get the wrong idea.

Or the right one.

"Oh? And was he handsome, then?" She asks, because of course she does.

Aziraphale shrugs again.

"Oh, come on, you can tell me," she insists. 

He sighs, and thinks, and relents.

"I suppose so. Tall and thin. Dressed like he's going to a fashion forward funeral. Long red hair. Oh, and the most fascinating golden eyes. Very unusual."

Tracy raises her eyebrows meaningfully and smiles.

"No," Aziraphale protests, "absolutely not. I do not like him. He keeps buying my books!"

Tracy looks at him.

"You do run a bookshop, dear."

"Yes, I'm perfectly aware, and I rather wish people would stop telling me that."

He sighs, and stirs his tea with vigour, accomplishing absolutely nothing. Tracy, kindly, gives him a few moments.

"Perhaps you ought to give it a try?" She suggests gently, "what's the worst that could happen? An awkward meal?"

"I suppose," Aziraphale says, mostly to placate her.

"It's been years since-"

"It has," he agrees quickly.

"Fine," he says with a sigh, "fine, if it will put your mind at ease I'll agree if he asks again."

"It's not my mind I worry about."

They sit in silence for a few moments, and Aziraphale, fearful of more earnest concern, asks if there are any more holiday photos he can see, and that's the rest of their afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is a large portion of this chapter me seeing that post of neil gaiman's defense of Aziraphale having a bookshop but badly? Yes.


	10. Renewal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley impulsively asks Aziraphale out again

It is well into autumn by the time Crowley asks Aziraphale out again. By now he has spent an afternoon reading in the shop most weeks, only abstaining when work has been too harsh. He and Aziraphale are starting to get on, now, talking about the books Crowley reads (and returns to Aziraphale because the shelving system is impenetrable, and he hasn't even attempted putting them back with upsetting the delicate literary ecosystem), Crowley occasionally making fun of the customers, with Aziraphale chastising him and trying and failing to hide his amusement. Occasionally Crowley has checked in on Aziraphale as a snake, too, but he has tried not to do so overly much. It feels like cheating, a little bit, like skipping the difficult bit of getting to know someone and getting right to the soft bit. And he knows, of course, from those experiences, that Aziraphale _is_ terribly soft, and warm, and a comfortable person on which to rest one's scales.

He goes to the shop without a plan in mind, heading over after leaving work early one day. It's dark and rainy and his umbrella inverts itself, going quickly from a circle of dispelling rain to an abstract thing of spiky limbs and torn flaps of fabric, torn by the wind. He could turn around, go home instead, and be damp and uncomfortable and have his hair be wet for only a little while but he has been looking forward to going to the shop for a week now, and so he powers through. It's become one of the things he looks forward to, along with his usual weeklyish drinks with Anathema (and sometimes Newt, though the boy is a bit scared of him despite what ought to be reptile amphibian solidarity). 

The rain has only gotten more aggressive by the time he gets there, and he is feeling clammy and uncomfortable, but he has gotten this far, and it is too late to turn around now. Especially as he heard the first hint of thunder in the distance. He wrings out his hair and shakes as much rain from his jacket as he can before going in; he's hardly going to be able to seduce Aziraphale by dripping all over his valuable books.

The bell jingles cheerily to announce his arrival as he walks in. There are a few other customers in the shop, at least two of whom look lost and wet enough that Crowley feels certain they are only in here to hide from what feels like the lead up to the biblical flood. He rakes his fingers through his limp and rain tangled hair self consciously, and takes his shades off to wipe the water from them. Gives the shop a cursory glance, but he doesn't immediately spot Aziraphale so he heads up the stairs again, to the second level.

This part of the shop is usually fairly deserted, the stairs a little hidden. There is a locked door there, too, which Crowley knows from the one time leads to the flat above the shop. He watches it for a moment, wondering whether he will ever be invited back there as a human. Then he shakes his head, and goes over to the gardening section. 

There is a book which he has been working his way through, about the history of parks, and the way they have been thought about and developed through history, and it is in fact reasonably interesting, even though he feels that it ought to be shelved with the history ones. He picks it up, and checks his phone to see where he had gotten to (leaving receipts in the book as a bookmark between visits is, he has been informed, not acceptable), and finds a chair.

The view from up here is better, and he can see a hint of fluffy white hair hidden between two shelves, where Aziraphale is trying to avoid a customer who is complaining the can't find the shop's wifi. Which is understandable, Crowley thinks, because he has been here often enough to have overheard people's reactions when they are told there isn't one. Aziraphale's aversion to new technology is so strong, in fact, that there is barely reception in here, and not even the wifi from the café across the street can reach.

He has not gotten more than a few pages into a digression chapter about the import of a certain species of tree and its impact on the ecology when he hears steps on the stairs. It takes some effort not to look up, to see whether it's a certain bookshop owner, but he manages to instead concentrate on this 18th century woodcut of what purports to be a kind of palm, but in fact looks more like the illustrator slipped with the carving tool halfway through and had to finish the rest with their non dominant hand.

"Hello, Crowley, oh, oh dear, been out in the rain?"

Crowley starts guiltily, looking up at that slightly frowning face.

"Hi, uh, yu- yeah. I did, uh, been trying not to drip on anything. Sorry. Don't want to harm the books. Or the furniture, whih frankly seems antique as well."

"Oh, don't worry," Aziraphale says, waving the excuses away, "the furniture has been here as long as the shop, I believe."

Crowley, who has seen the est. 1800 on the sign out front, does not, personally, think that's better, so he nudges his wet jacket a bit further away from the chair.

"But you do look quite soaked. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Oh, uh, I. You don't have to? I'm fine, honestly," he says.

God, really can't talk sensibly around this man, huh?

"Nonsense, I'm going to keep one of the few customers who respect my business model around," Aziraphale says, and Crowley can help but let out a slightly undignified snort of laughter.

"Sugar?" Aziraphale asks, "milk?"

"Mnah, just black is good. Thanks."

As Aziraphale descends the stairs again Crowley starts to worry about whether or not he had sounded sufficiently grateful, but that's not a very useful emotion, so he tries to force himself to pay attention to the book again. When that, predictably, fails, he looks at plants on Instagram instead.

It's about fifteen minutes before Aziraphale returns, and when he does he is carrying two mugs; one white with feathery wings for a handle, the other black with a bat wing handle. He hands Crowley the latter.

"It's not a moral judgement, you understand," he explains to Crowley, who had not assumed it to be one until this very moment, "I simply thought that one was closer to your aesthetic."

"It is," Crowley agrees, and thanks him again, and watches Aziraphale settle down in a chair close to his.

He wonders whether they are meant to keep talking. He hopes so. The tea smells like some spice he can't quite identify, but is clearly quite fancy. There's a few little bits in it, barely visible against the black ceramic, and Crowley takes a tiny sip, burning his tongue.

"It may be a tad hot, still," Aziraphale explains as Crowley, forgetting himself, hisses in pain.

"Not at all," he manages through gritted teeth, and Aziraphale smiles a delighted and bastardous little smile.

"How are you getting on with the book? It's quite a fascinating one, as I recall."

Crowley wobbles his hand back and forth.

"'S not quite what I'd thought it would be. Bit more... abstract, really, but I'm getting through it. Do, again, appreciate you letting me read here instead of purchasing them."

"Oh, it is no problem," Aziraphale assures him again.

They sit, for a little while, drinking their tea in a comfortable silence, and watching a young woman wait by the counter in an attempt to pay for a book for a solid ten minutes before sighing and leaving it there, going back out into the rain. Aziraphale, Crowley sees, pretends not to notice, but looks satisfied when she leaves, and Crowley can't help but chuckle.

"What?" Aziraphale asks.

"Your, uh, business model is a delight," he tells him.

"I- thank you?"

Crowley can tell he's trying to work out whether he is being made fun of, some insecurity lurking in the corners of his eyes.

"I mean it. Brings me great joy. No idea how you're keeping it running this way, but good for you."

Aziraphale smiles nervously.

"Oh, err, yes, it's..."

"You don't need to explain," Crowley assures him, smiling and hoping the light glints off his glasses.

When the tea is finished, and the rain has stopped beating down outside, the two of them are the only ones left in the shop. Crowley hasn't checked his watch to work out what time it is, but it feels later than he meant for it to get. He glances over at Aziraphale through the cover of his dark glasses, and sees him peering surreptitiously back at him. There is just the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks, and the remnants of a nervous smile on his lips, and Crowley thinks he would quite like to kiss him. To run his hands through that ridiculous fluffy curly hair, and feel how soft he is beneath human hands, but also to learn more about him. To figure out what on Earth has made this man so incredibly passionate about books and also about whatever the opposite of customer service is. Customer hostility? Although Crowley is a customer, and he has just gotten tea in exchange for not spending money, and what is that if not the ideal customer experience? He's gonna leave a good yelp review later, to balance out the overwhelmingly negative ones.

"Look," he begins, and falters.

He wasn't going to ask, but Aziraphale is so very nice and lovely, and if he gets shut down again, he is gonna leave it forever, but you've got to be optimistic, as he heard someone say once. And he's not, usually, not with things like this, things that actually _matter_ , but it's been a few months since the last time, and god, this grumpy, weird and yet somewhat angelic man is still on his mind, and if he doesn't give it another go he is going to regret it when it's too late, he knows himself that well. Also, maybe, perhaps he let let Anathema read his cards. Who is to say.

"Yes?" Aziraphale asks, and his smile is friendly and encouraging, and that, really, is all Crowley needs.

He forces himself to push his glasses up into his hair. Real eye contact is important, he feels. There is expectation in Aziraphale's face, but he can't entirely tell whether it's good or bad, and he momentarily worries whether this is going to be a disaster, but he's too far in to turn back now, so he swallows down the concern like it's the bitter dregs of tea and takes a deep breath.

"Look, I know I was weird about it last time, and that- please, I know, just let me finish what I'm going to say, yeah? Thanks. I know I was weird about it last time, and it was too soon, and out of nowhere, and if you're just being nice now, just polite, that's fine, that's all good, but- Right. Would you like to go to dinner with me? Or drinks, or coffee or I don't know, to the park and feed the ducks? I wouldn't- no expectations, I just really like you and I very much want to get to know you better, if that- If that's something you would be interested in doing as well, and if it's a no this time too then, well, I'll shut up about it forever, I promise."

Aziraphale's face swims back into focus from where his brain had protected itself by not allowing him to process the man's facial expression. He looks amused, but not cruelly so. Merely, perhaps, at Crowley's intense rambling, rather than any proper offence taken. Crowley hasn't believed in any deity or higher power since he was very little, but he finds himself asking, if anybody is out there, to let him be lucky now. Unless, he adds, in his quasi prayer, him being lucky goes against what Aziraphale wants, because being manipulated by a higher power into wanting something you don't seems very shady. So, actually, if any higher power is listening, they can fuck right off and stop messing with people's lives.

"I would like that, yes," Aziraphale tells him, his smile having blossomed from amused to genuine while Crowley was spiralling.

"Oh thank god," Crowley mutters.

"Err," he adds, on seeing Aziraphale's face, "I was going to be really embarrassed if you said no."

"Well, I think you have been, enough, for now. So. Dinner?"

"If that's your preference, yeah."

"Oh, oh it rather is. I'm not much of a coffee person, I'm afraid, and drinks seem sort of impersonal. And a nice walk and some duck observing could be nice after a dinner, couldn't it?"

Crowley is painfully aware of how much his face is lighting up, how he is smiling like an idiot, cradling his empty bat wing mug.

"Yeah, yes. Absolutely. Great. Good. Uh. I'll call you?"

He hands over his business card. It's got his mobile phone number on it, as well as his work information. There's a stylised snake logo in the corner, based on his tattoo. He wasn't allowed to put it on his company business cards, so he had his own printed, and just uses them instead. One has got to be true to one's brand, after all. He receives, in turn, a handwritten note, on nice letter paper, in what looks like an old fashioned calligraphy pen of sorts. Aziraphale's handwriting is beautiful and intricate, and Crowley begins to suspect him of exclusively owning fancy letter writing paper.

"I look forward to hearing from you," Aziraphale tells him, as he leaves.


	11. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean. First date. Title says it all.

Dates. How do dates work? Aziraphale has rather forgotten; it’s been years since he’s been on one. And, well, given the context, he’s reasonably certain this is one. One is meant, he suspects, to dress up. To look impressive for ones date, to reassure them, even, that they made the right choice in asking one out. Well, Aziraphale isn’t, admittedly, all that concerned with that, because Crowley had seemed very enthusiastic. He doesn’t entirely understand why, but it _is_ rather nice to feel desirable.

Crowley is, Aziraphale has concluded, over their couple of months of light acquaintance, a very strange man. He tries very hard to come across as slick and cool and all those other things Aziraphale has never understood quite why are so positive, nor how one becomes, but he is, in fact, a quite charming man when he fails to be any of those things. According to his business card he is something like assistant head of sales, which sounds terribly vague, at a company whose purpose seems to be very nebulously related to technology of some kind. But there is also a snake on his business card, which Aziraphale knows, having searched for the company on the google (mainly to try to figure out what it is Crowley actually does), to have nothing to do with the company’s actual logo, which was the usual vague combination of geometric shapes. 

He has looked at the books Crowley has chosen to read here, and the few he bought, and some of them are really quite advanced books on horticultural techniques, so he clearly cares deeply for that subject as well, which doesn’t seem “cool”, although who is Aziraphale to say. He certainly never has been, beyond in the very literal sense, at least. 

They have talked, each time he has been in the shop, although rarely for very long, and usually at Crowley’s initiative. Which isn’t to say Aziraphale minds, or indeed that he hasn’t wanted to, only that Crowley seems more skilled at it. He asks about Aziraphale, about the shop, in a way that leaves Aziraphale fumbling to reciprocate. Sometimes he suspect Gabriel is right; that living and working here while shunning customers has made Aziraphale somewhat of a hermit. Whether he minds or not is a difficult question. Sometimes he thinks he would like to spend more time with people, but one does have to work so terribly hard to meet them, and get to know them, and find ones that share his interests. He and Tracy had met entirely by accident, when she for a time rented the space next to his shop, and they kept meeting in the queue at the bakery down the road. Tracy. Right.

 **Aziraphale:** Hello Tracy, it is Aziraphale. As you may recall I told you, this Crowley fellow asked me out, and I have accepted, but I find myself worrying abo

 **Aziraphale:** ut how one goes about going on a “date”, because, as you remember, it has been some considerable time since the last time I had the dubious

 **Aziraphale:** fortune of being invited on one. Is one meant to dress very formally at all, do you think? 

**Tracy:** Dear, you don’t need to be quite so wordy in text. But yes, one is meant to look ones best. Would you like me to come over and help?

 **Aziraphale:** Oh, well, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. But, well, I worry.

 **Tracy:** He’s not going to change his mind because of how you dress.

 **Aziraphale:** Oh, thank you, I suppose that isn’t terribly likely given his enthusiasm, no, but one does worry.

Crowley had texted him the day after he asked him out, to agree on a place. Aziraphale had suggested this new French Thai fusion place he had heard about and wanted an excuse to try (it was reasonably pricey), and while Crowley had been sceptic of the premise, he had agreed willingly enough. They were to meet there at seven, which is why Aziraphale, at five, has closed the shop a bit early (the opening hours posted outside belong, after all, to the fiction section) and is currently eyeing his closet with narrowed eyes. It is, he has concluded with some worry, overwhelmingly beige. Sure, there are creams and sepias and sky blues, but the overall impression is distinctly, well, beige.

He manages, at least, to find a waistcoat that is slightly less worn than the one he customarily wears, which though it is a light brown has some subtle golden embroidery around the edge. Gold is, by its very definition, formal, is it not? He adds a blue shirt just a little bit darker than his usual one, and a matching tartan bow-tie. At least he thinks it matches. Tartan matches most things, doesn’t it? It is at least terribly stylish, he’s pretty sure.

-

Crowley arrives at the restaurant five minutes before they’re due to meet, and takes the opportunity to smoke. He doesn’t, usually, isn’t addicted or anything, but there is something about it that calms the nerves, even if he is relatively sure that’s all a placebo effect. He has reserved them a table, and a waiter watches him with that distinct disdain you only get from the French ones. Crowley spots a head of bright white hair across the street, and flicks his cigarette into a nearby puddle, and pops a mint into his mouth. Aziraphale probably doesn’t like smoking. The smell, Crowley imagines, sticks to paper.

“Aziraphale, hi,” he says, trying to look nonchalant but likely failing miserably, breaking out into a wide grin at the man’s small soft smile of recognition.

“Good evening, Crowley,” he says.

He’s dressed almost identically to all the other times Crowley has seen him, although in very slightly darker shades. It’s an absurd outfit, but it does work so well for him, and Crowley doesn’t understand it at all. He tries to imagine what he might look like dressed like someone aware of the year they live in, but the very idea of it is laughable. He’s always dressed exactly like this, Crowley thinks. Probably was even when he was little. The image of a toddler Aziraphale with his little waistcoat and childsized tartan bow-tie and a book far too advanced for his age makes Crowley’s brain do something funny and soft.

They find their table, in a corner near the window, and since Aziraphale seems to know what he’s doing foodwise, Crowley lets him do the ordering.

“Anything you like,” Crowley assures him, “I’ll trust your recommendation.”

Aziraphale’s face lights up, and he begins to talk with great enthusiasm about flavour combinations. Crowley listens, chin resting on his hand, half paying attention but mostly just watching Aziraphale. He gets so bright when he’s excited, his eyes twinkling, a constant smile on his face. Crowley could get lost in those eyes, that smile, easy as anything.

They get their wine, eventually, this too Aziraphale’s pick, and it is lovely. French, by necessity, and rather intense, but Crowley is promised it will go wonderfully with the food. Crowley continues to watch him, falling a little deeper every time Aziraphale smiles at him.

“So. Why bookshop? I mean, I get you like books and don’t want to do a library, but how did you end up starting it?”

“Oh, well. After university, when I discovered there weren’t actually all that many jobs for a theologian, I needed a job, and I walked past the shop, and saw they were looking for an assistant. I went in and asked, and the old woman running the shop hired me on the spot. Apparently it was quite tricky finding people, I’ve no idea why. It was smaller, back then, hadn’t been expanded to the second floor yet.. But, yes, I eventually took over more and more of the duties, as she got older. And when she retired, well. I, ah, I had the dubious fortune of losing my parents twenty years ago, and the inheritance was, well. Sizeable enough that I was able to buy the shop. Expand a little.”

“I’m sorry about your parents,” Crowley offers.

“Ah, well, long time ago,” Aziraphale says with a forced smile.

But dead parents aren’t good first date material, so he doesn’t ask, even if it’s clear it’s a subject Aziraphale has mixed feelings about. Luckily for him, their food arrives before he has the opportunity to look for something to change the subject to. His own food is fine; he still doesn’t get this particular fusion concept, and it feels to him as if it clashes some, but he has never cared all that much for food anyway. It’s fuel. Right here, it is quite overpriced fuel, but clearly not to Aziraphale. Watching him eat is, well, it’s an experience. 

“Good?” Crowley asks through a mouthful of some sort of fish which can’t quite decide which cuisine to be.

Aziraphale moans at the taste of something particularly tasty, and Crowley blushes, actually physically blushes, like a fucking teenager. Does he know he’s doing that? Does he know how it sounds? Crowley isn’t sure, but he resolves to find more ways to make Aziraphale make sounds like that.

“Exquisite,” Aziraphale replies, and proceeds to tell Crowley in great detail just how wonderful the flavours are.

Crowley nods and makes noises of agreement and adds questions where necessary, but again he finds himself watching Aziraphale, memorising his expressions, worried this will be both the first and last date. Sure, Aziraphale seems to be greatly enjoying himself, but Crowley thinks that’s more to do with the food than anything else.

“What about you, then? Will you tell me about what you do?” Aziraphale asks as they peruse the dessert menu.

“Oh, nah, it’s not very interesting. I talk people into buying stuff. I’m, uh, I’m pretty decent at it, but it’s nothing much to say.”

“Is it what you wanted to do?” Aziraphale asks, and his voice is terribly kind.

Crowley shrugs, and swallows the last of his third glass of wine.

“Not really. Who dreams of selling stuff? Nah. Wanted to work with plants, really. Always liked that, watching something grow and flourish because you’ve managed to treat it right, managed to talk it into acting right, but it’s hard to get jobs in it that aren’t just working in a flower shop. And then I’d still just be selling things, but without being able to afford my rent.”

“I suppose,” agrees Aziraphale sympathetically, “And there is something to be said for not trying to monetise your interests, to leaving something to be just for fun. What do you think you would be doing? In an ideal world, where money was no worry?”

Crowley thinks for a moment, given time to do so by a lovely waitress whose French is actually quite good, if heavily accented, coming by to take their dessert orders. Crowley has an espresso which comes with some sort of small dark chocolate truffle thing, and Aziraphale some sort of fancy crème brûlée situation with fruits that, when they arrive, Crowley despite his vast plant knowledge, cannot identify.

“I think I would like to have a garden. You know, vast one, the kind you could get lost in. Or work in some botanical garden, I suppose, if I’ve still got to earn money. Just making things grow, you know?”

Aziraphale smiles.

“I think you would be wonderful at that,” he says, and Crowley has to fight himself not to put on his sunglasses to avoid revealing quite how good that makes him feel.

“Yeah, uh, well. Bit of a hopeless dream, that. Bet you have to have some sort of degree for that too, and more experience than just a plant room in your flat.”

“You keep many?” Aziraphale asks.

“Oh, yeah. Used to have a guest bedroom, now it’s all plants. Little jungle of my own. ‘S nice, my flat being where it is. Can’t see anything natural from outside it, so bringing nature in. Works well.”

“I would love to see them sometime,” Aziraphale tells him, and Crowley’s brain very nearly short circuits, saved only by the arrival of their dessert.

They say goodbye outside the restaurant, which is apparently situated somewhere between their respective homes, which means no excuse to walk together, but that is probably just as well, because Crowley suspects the rest of his weekend is going to be spent limbless and trying not to have too many emotions.

He sends Anathema a text, asking how to tell whether a date went well, and only realises he did not, in fact, press the right contact when Aziraphale replies, saying he thinks it was nice, if that helps. Yup. Definitely snaking out for the remainer of the weekend, if not the next decade.


	12. Worries & Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley both fret about their date, but also both have the wisdom to seek advice from their smarter friends

Crowley doesn't show up in the bookshop in the week following their date, nor does he communicate in anyway, at least not after he had asked how the date had gone. It had struck Aziraphale as a little odd, that, asking him just as Aziraphale got through the door and into his shop. But it has been a while since last Aziraphale was on a date, and who is he to judge what the etiquette for it is these days.

For himself, he had quite enjoyed their dinner. When Crowley forgets about trying to appear as if he knows at all what he is doing, he can be quite charming. It's something in the sort of embarrassed floundering that is so disarming, that allows Aziraphale to see through what is very clearly a hard shell of a built up exterior. It is not, of course, that he prefers to see Crowley be uncomfortable, no, that would be terribly callous of him. It is rather that he feels like then he sees the real Crowley, the person he is, rather than who he is trying very hard to be. Aziraphale, to be honest, doesn't think he particularly likes the person Crowley is trying to be. That person is a slick and cool, every sentence and look and smirk calculated. Always- oh that is it, isn't it. Always seems like he is trying get something. No. No, Aziraphale greatly prefers the Crowley whose dream is to create a garden, and who for some absurd reason seems to become nervous around Aziraphale. Who looks on attentively as Aziraphale rambles about books or food or something or rather Crowley seems to have no inherent interest in beyond that it is what Aziraphale is telling him about. The Crowley who takes off those awful sunglasses so they can properly look at each other, have a real conversation. So Aziraphale can look at those stunning golden eyes.

It has occurred to Aziraphale that the sunglasses might be prescription, or that his eyes are sensitive to light, of course, but he has seemed not to have much issue wearing them when it is just the two of them. Perhaps they are a secret, just for Aziraphale. But no, no that is nonsense. Romantic nonsense. He has been letting himself get swept away by his books again, that's it. That sort of thing doesn't happen in real life.

-

"So how was it?" Asks Tracy with the innocence of someone who knows perfectly well they were right are not even pretending to hide it.

Aziraphale looks away, just a hint of a blush in his cheeks fighting with a failing attempt at a stern frown. His gives himself a moment by sipping his tea, looking at her over the rim of his cup. Her eyebrows are wigglig suggestively, so much so they nearly topple her bright orange wig from its perch.

"It was not as disastrous as it might have been," Aziraphale begrudgingly admits. 

"No?"

"It was... it was rather nice, in fact. He was far less... whatever it was he was the first time. Seemed quite kind, and interested in me, which is... odd, but flattering."

"Oh, dear, don't put yourself down like that, you're perfectly charming."

He looks at her with a not nonexistent amount of skepticism in his eyebrows.

"Although a little grumbly at times, and not the most social, if you insist," she adds, and he gives her a little smile of thanks and insult all mixed up in one. 

"And will you tell me more about this charming fellow?"

"I- oh, fine, fine. He likes plants. He told me he would like to have a garden, to work with plants, but instead he, I think, sells computers or something like that. It didn't seem like something he wanted to talk about, or, if I'm honest, do."

"You sound like you care?"

It isn't an accusation, but it feels like one anyway.

"I- I supposed I might do so, eventually," he admits, and becomes unduly fascinated by the whirling of tiny tea fragments in the bottom of his cup.

"So you'll go on a second date with him?"

"He hasn't asked. I've not heard from or seen him for a week and a half."

"That's not an answer, dear."

-

Crowley does spend the rest of his weekend in his more serpentine shape, hanging from the best of his climbing branches and basking in the heat from his lamp. He gives the plants regular withering glares, just to keep them in line. They usually do well, but it's never a good idea to let them think they can get away with slacking. No. Rigid vicious plant discipline in this house. He's read about Caesar's decimating his troops to threaten them into perfect obedience and performance, and sees no reason this should not work equally well with house plants.

His phone lies shoved under his mattress in the bedroom, where he can neither hear nor see nor check it, and, of course, crucially, not actually make an utter pathetic fool of himself more than he already has. He would complain about it to Anathema, but he is genuinely worried he will choose the wrong contact again. Perhaps he ought to sort by last names instead, but still Device and Fell are perilously close. He really must find out what the Z stands for.

He hisses out the serpentine equivalent of fuck, and curls tighter around the branch still, as if he means to strangle it. Perhaps he is constrictor of sort after all.

He stays away from the bookshop for a while. Much as he longs to go back, embarrassment hangs heavy over him. He also doesn't want to come on too strong; god knows he's done that enough already, and, well, should Aziraphale be the one to reach out next, then that will just be a bonus. He doesn't, though, at least not in the first week. 

In the end, Crowley is forced to crawl back to Anathema, tail between his legs (metaphorically, he never has a tail and legs at the same time) to ask for her advice.

"Just go back? Ask him out again or whatever? I literally do not see the problem."

She is just as cruel as she always is, as rudely direct and without a care for his feelings. Crowley considers buying a full bottle of vodka and downing the whole thing as an oversized shot to get through this concersation.

"No, you don't understand. I sent _him_ an text asking if the date went well when I meant to send it to _you_ ," Crowley explains, satisfied this will convince her of his desperate situation, the immense suffering he has brought on himself.

"So?"

"What do you mean, so?" 

"Well what did he say, bookshopman funny name?" She demands, one skinny eyebrow raised above big circle glasses.

"Said he thought it went well," Crowley mutters.

Her other eyebrow joins the first in the ascent of her forehead, her lips pulling into a smile so insufferably smug that he considers tossing his drink at her. But it was eight pounds, so it's probably not worth it. He drinks down most of it instead, gathering his thoughts.

"Look," he says, pointing at her with an almost steady finger, "you don't get to talk, okay. You had it easy. Newt was doodling Mr. Newt Device on his notebooks within minutes of meeting you."

She looks as if she means to argue, then shrugs.

"Yeah. Okay. That's fair. But it's not the only relationship I've been in, you know."

"Please, if the previous guys were like him but somehow less worth hanging onto I don't want to know."

"Bit heteronormative, assuming they're all guys."

"Whatever. Guys. Girls. Whatever the nonbinary version of that words is. Folks? That sounds like something an american might say."

She rolls her eyes at him.

"Anyway. Point is, if that's his answer he probably isn't just being polite. And he'll probably go out with you again when you get off your anxious ass and ask him."

"Hey," he protests weakly.

She gives him a glare that very clearly says that she is right and he withers under it. He suspects it says a great deal about young Mr. Pulsifer-Device (they're not married but they might as well be to Crowley's mind, because while Anathema very obviously to everyone involved can do better, she equally obviously chooses not to) that he despite his extreme and obvious nervouses chooses to aubject himself to her at any chance he gets. Crowley needs breaks.

"So you will?"

She makes it sound like this is something they have settled now.

"Uh," he replies intelligently. 

"Great. Now, I'm going to get us another bottle, and you can starting working on the text apologising for apparently ghosting him," she tells him, and heads to the bar in a whirlwind of skirts.

"I don't think he knows what ghosting is," Crowley points out, but she is already gone.

"Probably think it means he's haunted," he mutters, and resigns himself too being bulled into proper communication. 

-

Almost two weeks after their date Aziraphale gets a text message. He doesn't get them often, as he tries to discourage people from contacting him that way. In a fit of self care he had explained to Gabriel that he still only owns his old rotary phone, simply so he wouldn't give the impression of being quite so _available_ all the time. He usually wishes that were still the case, although he is exited when he sees Crowley's name pop up on the locked screen.

 **Crowley:** Hi, I'm sorry for disappearing on you. Work has been a lot. Was thinking I might come by tomorrow? Maybe bring more apologetic baked goods?

And then at the end there is a little picture of a smiling yellow circle which appears to be wearing sunglasses. Just like Crowley! Oh, that's very clever, Aziraphale wonders how he managed that.

 **Aziraphale:** Hello, Crowley. That sounds like a lovely idea! I will be in the shop all day, as you might have guessed. I

 **Aziraphale:** shall look forward to seeing you then.   
Sincerely, Aziraphale 

Crowley sends back a message consisting primarily of little white boxes with nothing in them. Aziraphale does not understand, but assumes Crowley will reveal the mystery the next day.

Aziraphale awakens the next morning after a rather strange dream. In it there had been some immense black shape, wrapping around him and holding him tight. It had felt and looked almost like a kind of dragon, all black scales, yellow eyes, fangs, and immense wings so dark they were like a hole in time and space. It had restrained him, but it had not been a nightmare. Indeed he had felt utterly safe trapped in those dark coils. He briefly considers consulting his copy of Freud's _The Interpretation of Dreams_ , but doubts that that will provide any useful insights. The man was, after all, scientifically quite useless. No, it's just his subconscious speaking in strange metaphors, he decides, and not the kind old Sigmund would suggest.

He spends much of his day waiting for Crowley, even though it doesn't feel like that is what he's doing. When, however, he exitedly looks at the door every single time a customer enters, only to feel slightly deflated, he is forced to admit that that is indeed what is happening. It's foolish, it's absurd. He doesn't even like the man that much, does he? Crowley is ... is tall. And his hair colour is terribly striking, much like his eyes. And he apologises with French pastries. And listens to Aziraphale with genuine interest, and respects the way he runs his bookshop and- and all right. Perhaps Aziraphale is warming to him. 

During the day he eventually trains himself not to look to the door like an over eager puppy every time the bell rings. This is helped by the fact that there is a surprisingly high number of customers. It must, he thinks, be students, because they all look tired and are very grateful for his policy of letting them look at the books so long as they are careful and under no circumstance buy anything. So when the bell rings, sometime after lunch (eaten, for once, in the shop, and bought at the café across the road, for reasons entirely unrelated to handsome redheaded men and their promises to show up), he doesn't bother to look. In fact he is debating putting up a sign for the students so they will stop bothering him in the midst of repairing the binding on this early nineteenth century bible. 

"Hi," comes a voice from behind him.

Aziraphale turns to see Crowley, who seems to be frowning nervously, smiling and scowling all at the same time. He is holding a paper bag promising baked goods in front of him like a shield. Aziraphale finds himself smiling without entirely intending to.

"Crowley! Hello."

Crowley holds up what is in his other hand; one of those cardboard things for carrying takeaway cups.

"Got you cocoa," he says, "remember what you said about not liking coffee so much, but I don't trust the café to keep decent tea."

"Oh, oh splendid. That sounds delightful! Would you like to join me upstairs? I'd invite you into the back room, but I ought to keep half an eye on the shop, just in case."

"Course," Crowley says with a strange choked sort of noise, and follows him up.

He watches patiently as Aziraphale drags two of the armchairs close together and finds a small table to set between them. It has a beautiful little lacy tablecloth on it, and it occurs to Aziraphale a little too late that maybe that's the sort of thing that will make Crowley think he isn't "cool" enough for him. But, in a moment of impressive insight and self awareness, he realises that if Crowley wanted cool he probably wouldn't have looked in a used bookshop.

The cocoa is delightful, and so are the pastries. Aziraphale is having trouble deciding which he most wants to try, so Crowley shrugs and breaks both of them into two pieces. Aziraphale cannot help but notice the ones Crowley keep are significantly smaller than the ones he gives to Aziraphale. Perhaps he is just being polite. But- but here, where they are relatively alone, he takes off his sunglasses, and smiles a less guarded and posed smile. And Aziraphale finds himself instinctively smiling back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess maybe technically this is some alternate universe in which faint remnants of their true selves manifest on occasion.


	13. Uncomfortable Honesties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale finish their not-quite-a-second-date

So. Crowley, he discovers, might have a tiny little thing for watching Aziraphale eat. It’s not creepy! It’s not as creepy as it sounds, probably, but listen. The man loves food. He _loves_ food, evidently. Not only does he spend a great deal of time talking about it, at least based on Crowley’s experience so far, but he really enjoys eating it. He _really_ enjoys eating it. There are _moans_ , all right? How is a man meant to deal with that? How is a man meant not to think of what other things could elicit sounds like that from him? It’s indecent, is what it is. It’s fucking hot.

Moans aside, they mostly eat in silence. Crowley swallows his chunks of pastry almost without chewing, a slightly serpentine trait creeping into his human form, but fortunately Aziraphale seems to wrapped up to notice. This leaves Crowley with a little time to simply watch Aziraphale, to commit some of those expressions to memory for- well. That’s his business.

“Y’know,” Crowley says, looking firmly at the way an old lady is browsing the shelves down below, “I was- I was pretty nervous, after last time.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale says, and out of the corner of his eye Crowley can see him wipe crumbs from his lips, and that doesn’t make Crowley feel anything at all, nope.

“That you… I mean. ‘S why it took me so long to get back to you. I mean, there also was a lot of, y’know, stuff at work. But mainly it’s… I don’t know. Was afraid you might not want to see me again.”

He is deeply uncomfortable, physically and psychically, with being this emotionally vulnerable, but Aziraphale has, so far, seemed to be nicer to him when he’s acting like a complete fucking idiot, and so perhaps that is just Aziraphale’s type, maybe he just doesn’t like cool people. And that’s fair. 

“My dear boy, what would lead to you to that conclusion?” Aziraphale asks, and looks genuinely worried.

Crowley shrugs, his weird pointy shoulders turning him into a geometric knot of a person. He keeps looking at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, and the man is just looking right back, greenish brown eyes bright and wide. Weren’t they grey the last time? Perhaps, a traitorous part of his mind suggests, he needs to spend more time staring dreamily into them. To make sure. For science.

“First time I asked you, you were… I mean, obviously, I was out of line. Realise that now, yeah? But. You were so. Don’t know. Not into it. And I guess I don’t really know how I uh. Changed your mind, I suppose.”

“Oh, well, yes. You did rather spring that on me. And I must admit I was a little more hostile than you deserved. You simply took me by surprise, and, well. I didn’t, if you must know, really think I was your type? You seemed so… unlike me, I suppose, in every way.”

“I mean, yeah. ‘S kind of the point.”

“What, us being dissimilar?” Aziraphale asks, frowning and reaching up as if to adjust his glasses before realising he isn’t actually currently wearing any.

Crowley keeps feeling like he’s digging himself into holes that he can’t get out of, and then, rather than trying to climb, he just digs a new conversational hole, and soon he will emerge somewhere on the other side, lost and helpless. 

“I don’t… I mean.”

He gestures helplessly.

“Look, if you don’t mind telling me, Crowley, why do you actually like me?”

Crowley’s mouth opens, then closes again, and he gestures meaningfully at Aziraphale, at everything around them. Aziraphale makes a confused face, and Crowley, once more, is forced to resort to words. Horrible. 

“The first time I saw you you-” Crowley begins, and then realises he can’t actually tell Aziraphale that, or, for that matter, how he came to develop feelings for the man in the first place.

“You were so desperately trying to get rid of me without letting me buy anything, which I thought was very funny, and sort of endearing. And you pretend to shelve your books and look busy, but you’re actually just reading them. Uh. You dress like it’s the early nineteen hundreds.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are narrowed, and Crowley realises that, to someone who doesn’t understand, it could seem like what he is listing is actually a series of insults.

“And you bring home lost snakes,” Crowley adds, “Big snake fan, me.” 

He gestures unnecessarily to the tattoo on his cheekbone. 

“Yes, I’ve, ah, gathered that much,” Aziraphale replies.

“And sometimes, with the sun behind you, your hair lights up like a halo.”

What Crowley means by this is that he finds Aziraphale dreadfully pretty, in a strange sort of way. He hopes that comes across. It feels weird to say, right out, and, in his experience, not all men, whatever their orientation, appreciate being called pretty.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, and he still seems curious, but there is a very faint blush in his cheeks, which is something Crowley will attempt very hard to remember. 

“And,” continues Crowley, because he doesn’t know what to do, how to have a genuine emotional moment, and so nervous rambling will have to suffice, “y’know. Snakes. Not a lot of people who like them. People will see the one on my face and go eww, why’d you get that? Why not get a tattoo of something nice? And, right, many also go why get one on your face, are you an idiot, do you want to be unemployed forever, but look who’s doing good now, _Lucy_ , and- Look. I had a snake, and she, uh, she died, like a month before I saw that, and I was missing her, and it made me kind of emotional.”

Is this a blatant lie? Yes. Is it slightly emotionally manipulative? Also yes. But look. Crowley has kept a pet snake once, to see whether they would get along. It didn’t go well, and she didn’t like his snake shape, but he took good care of her, and she did die. Admittedly ten years ago, but still. Are you still allowed to be sad about pets you lost a decade ago? Absolutely. So, technically, his only lie is the chronological aspect. But if Aziraphale ever comes to his flat it will explain his having an empty snake set up. So. What he’s doing, really, is saving himself further lies down the line. If there is a line to be further down, after this, if the lies don’t show in his eyes. Crowley has, by necessity, become a very good liar. He has a secret that no one can know, and that forces his hand. It is also why he is so very good at sales. Sometimes he worries that, despite Aziraphale technically also working with selling things, he looks down on what Crowley does. Or will do, if they ever get closer, if this ever becomes a proper relationship.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Aziraphale says, his voice full of sympathy, his hand reaching out as if to pat Crowley, only their chairs are a bit too far apart for that to work.

Crowley instantly feels terribly guilty. He smiles uncomfortably, and wonders, as he often does when he is attempting to get close to someone new, whether this will be the person he can finally trust, finally tell. He wonders too whether Aziraphale would forgive him his lies, whether he would understand. Or maybe, as certain others, he would think he was hallucinating, and however much Crowley tried to explain refuse to listen. Fuck. It’s too big a risk, isn’t it? It definitely is.

“’S fine,” Crowley assures him, “a while ago now. But just, you know. Means a lot that you’d do something like that, you know? Made me pretty sure almost instantly that, however grumpy you were to me, you were a really good person. So I suppose I read into that a bit. And, well, clearly I was right, but I should very much have actually gotten to know you, rather than get sort of creepily emotionally attached.”

He has, despite occasional necessary lies, been so emotionally vulnerable today that he thinks he might have made himself ill. That’s a thing that can happen, right? At least in 1800s literature he’s pretty sure. People get ill and die from all kinds of things in those. 

Filled with a potent mixture of fear, bravery and neediness, he looks over at Aziraphale, who is watching him with such softness in his eyes. There is a little smile on his very pretty and only very slightly stained with cocoa lips. Fingers which Crowley knows how feel against scales but not against skin cradle his cardboard cup gently, and he wants very much to touch him. But that’s weird and early and he is not going to. He’s already violated Aziraphale’s trust enough, whether the man knows it or not.

“I- ah. I am grateful that you think so highly of me,” Aziraphale tells him, “even if I don’t entirely understand the logic of it.”

Crowley smiles at him again, and wishes he could just. Turn into a snake and hide under his chair, rather than be so terribly and actively seen, however much he also craves it.

“Can I ask then,” he says instead, because if he can’t hide then he can at least turn the attention over on Aziraphale instead, “why you said yes? What made you change your mind?”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and becomes suddenly very interested in what a customer is doing to some old looking book down below.

“Well, he adds, eyes still on the suspicious intruder, “you got nicer. And you stopped taking my books away, which I really do very much appreciate. And, well. You started being a little bit nicer. And if I am going to be excruciatingly honest, my psychic friend told me I had to say yes if you asked me again.”

“Err. Not,” he adds quickly, “that I regret it. I had a lovely time, you know.”

Crowley bristles a little bit at being called nice, even if it is definitely a compliment now. He doesn’t argue, though, because there is a more important question on his mind.

“Wait, you’ve got one of those too?”

“What, a psychic friend? Yes.”

“Fuck. Wait, yours isn’t a young American woman named Anathema, is it? Cause in that case I am having some words with her later.”

“What? No. Mine is English. And named Tracy. And older than us, I believe, though I’ve never dared to ask.”

“Oh. Right. Good. In earlier me’s defence, by the way, I was telling mine about you, and she was the one to tell me to ask you out. Both times, actually.”

“Well, then, I suppose even a psychic is right half the time,” Aziraphale replies, with an amused smile.

“Suppose it’s good, then, we both trust and listen to our weird psychic friends,” Crowley says, “maybe it means they’re the real deal.”

The rest of their chat is less mortifyingly earnest, thank someone. They talk a little about less important things, like the burden that is having to deal with customers, but eventually Aziraphale is forced to return to actually act like he runs his shop. Crowley leaves, but not before making vague and undefinable plans to go out again the week after. He wants to see Aziraphale again, and, and this still surprises him, the feeling appears to be mutual.

On his walk home he texts Anathema a series of triumphant emojis, to which she responds with a number of question marks. Shows what a bad psychic she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long. Wrote things for my other fic for two days, and then had another two days of being completely unable to write at all :(  
> Also, Crowley's experience of people reacting badly to snake tattoos is based on personal experience. It really makes people rush to tell you why they, personally, hate snakes. (It's not of Crowley, but it is, definitely, because of Crowley)


	14. Graphic Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (No, not that kind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been really very busy with uni + other obligations so here is a visual chapter instead


	15. A Good First

The first time they kiss, it is two dates and three weeks later, in the rain. They have come from a visit to a new restaurant, and Crowley is walking Aziraphale home. It’s on the way, he reasons, even if that makes his own walk significantly longer, but that doesn’t matter. What he really wants is just to bask in Aziraphale’s presence for another few moments more, to make sure he gets home safe. This is what is on his mind when he feels the beginnings of rain. 

At first it’s a few droplets, splashes of cold against his neck, but it quickly gets denser, a wall of rain following them as they first jog and then full on -if not very quickly- sprint the last few streets until they huddle outside the door to the bookshop as Aziraphale fumbles with the key. It’s an unspoken invitation, the rain forcing the implication, making any alternative unthinkably rude. At least this is what Crowley assumes. He sends a faint thank you to whatever deity may control the weather, grateful for this intervention, whether it is actually needed or not. On their last date, though Crowley hesitates to think of them as such, the very word feeling wrong to him, he had been almost entirely certain that Aziraphale was about to invite him in.

It is always the bookshop. At first Crowley thought it was because he himself was reluctant to invite Aziraphale to his flat, but he thinks now perhaps that it is because the bookshop is safe, almost neutral ground. It is, by definition, a public space, at least on the occasions it is open, and it also allows Crowley to be at Aziraphale’s without actually being in his living space. Although Crowley has of course briefly been there too, mostly as a snake. A fact he think he can never tell Aziraphale, not because he can never tell him he is sometimes a snake (though that is its own impossibility), but because that would mean admitting to having to sneak out of his bathroom before they knew each other, and that’s just too mortifyingly weird, even for a shapeshifter.

Aziraphale gets the door open after a few moments of grappling, and they hurry inside. Crowley doesn’t realise quite how absolutely drenched he is before there isn’t any rain making it constantly worse. His hair is plastered, no doubt unflatteringly, to his head, and he can barely see through his sunglasses, and not just because Aziraphale has yet to turn on the lights. His already mostly skintight clothes cling to him even tighter, uncomfortable and stiff with water. He grabs his phone, opening it to check it hasn’t drowned, but it still lights up, showing a picture of a lily he is particularly satisfied with.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, his voice a little forlorn, “I knew I ought to have grabbed an umbrella.”

“’S fine,” Crowley assures him, ignoring the unpleasant tickling sensation of water running down the bridge of his nose.

“No, it isn’t- oh dear, you’re absolutely soaked, aren’t you? Ah, err. Give me your jacket, dear boy. I’ll-”

He continues to ramble, and Crowley watches him fuss as warmth, defying both cold-bloodedness and his being very wet and cold, blooms in his chest. His hair curls, and as such is more resilient in its shape than Crowley’s, and springs up from his head defiantly still, but with a distinct spikiness to it that doesn’t seem like Aziraphale at all. Crowley quite enjoys it. Enjoys too the way the rain has made his clothes, which often seem as though they are chosen to obfuscate the body they cover, cling a little tighter, making the form of him just that much clearer. Crowley wants desperately to feel those shapes, to run his hands along them, but he can’t.

A towel collides with his front and he blinks down at Aziraphale in confusion. 

“For your hair,” Aziraphale suggests, a careful smile on his lips.

He hesitates, then reaches up to pluck Crowley’s glasses carefully from his face.

“Let me find something to wipe these clear for you,” he offers, explains.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Crowley agrees, still surprised at the utter ease with which Aziraphale disarms him. 

He takes the towel (beige) and rubs ineffectually at his hair for a bit, until it at least isn’t actively dripping down his back. The jacket is a nightmare to peel off, sticking unpleasantly to him and somehow becoming incredibly wrinkled in the process. He hangs it on the door handle for lack of anywhere else to put it. The shirt below isn’t completely wet, but it is also not completely black, and so it shows large darkened shapes where the rain soaked through. It feels like a bad look.

“Oh, you look very cold, my dear,” Aziraphale says, apparently unaware of how Crowley’s heart grows butterfly wings every time he uses the endearment, “would you like to borrow a jumper? And I’ll make us some nice hot tea.”

Some instinct tells Crowley to say it’s fine, he doesn’t live that far, he’s already wet, he can just walk, but fortunately he is quite selfish, so he nods gratefully. Aziraphale gives him another of those small and brief smile that lights Crowley’s soul on fire, and disappears up the stairs. The lights still aren’t on, and Crowley wonders if that’s on purpose, if this will feel more awkward with proper illumination. Aziraphale hasn’t given his sunglasses back, having got distracted in his quest to clean them, so he is quite grateful for that right now. 

That angel, that beautiful and ridiculous man returns with the most hideous jumper Crowley has ever seen. It seems to attempt the same tartan pattern as Aziraphale’s favourite bow-tie, only somehow none of the lines are straight or an even thickness. Aziraphale hands it to him, and he confirms that there is no tag. 

“It’s, ah. It is a little small for me, uh, currently,” Aziraphale says quietly, looking down and away, “but it should fit you fine, I think.”

“Thank you,” Crowley says, “it’s perfect.”

He really does mean it, adding a warm smile, but Aziraphale’s gaze is still locked on a slightly askew floorboard. Crowley takes the opportunity to turn around and pull his shirt off, exchanging it for the jumper. It is a bit scratchy, and the end of the sleeves down quite reach his wrists, and it is the absolute opposite of everything his style aspires to be, but it makes him feel terribly warm inside. And outside. It does seem to be wool.

“See? Perfect,” he says, spreading his arms wide to show off, wanting to reassure Aziraphale, who seems to have gotten a bit into his own head.

He finally looks up at Crowley, and his eyes light up again, and Crowley marvels at how much minute movements of that face now has the power to almost entirely control his mood, releasing whatever chemicals allow his brain to feel happy.

“Did, uh, did you make it?” Crowley asks carefully, although he is fairly certain Aziraphale won’t take that as an insult.

“I did,” Aziraphale beams, and frankly Crowley doesn’t need the lamps, because the other man’s smile lights up the room just fine, thank you.

“It’s lovely,” Crowley tells him.

This too is honest, because though it may be far from technically perfect, it is more of a thing than Crowley has ever made with his hands, and it radiates the love with which it was clearly created.

-

Half an hour later they are finishing their tea at the little table in the back room of the shop. There is a small table lamp, whose design and efficacy both hint to its having been made somewhere around 1910, and so the room is bathed in a warm yellow glow. It feels intimate, and the light flickers enough to evoke the feeling of candle light.

“And yeah, that’s when I started posting my plants. Don’t get very much out of it,” Crowley explains, on the tail end of a story about the flower photo Aziraphale had glimpsed earlier.

Aziraphale has changed into what is an almost identical outfit to what he was wearing, in just very slightly different shades of beige and tan and off white, but he has dropped the formality of a bow tie, and the uppermost button of his shirt is undone, and it looks almost indecent on him. Crowley is very much into it.

As he speaks Aziraphale is, very slowly and with great care, scrolling down his instagram page on Crowley’s phone (he had offered to attempt to download the app so that he might himself follow and “place little hearts on” Crowley’s account, but, much as the thought was endearing, Crowley isn’t in the mood to do tech support right now, which Aziraphale would doubtlessly require). Instead he gently takes the phone back, his fingers barely ghosting over Aziraphale’s, and they both look up.

Aziraphale’s eyes look dark brown in this light, only a light grey sheen below his pupil, and this close Crowley finds his gaze fixated on the soft golden lashes that frame his eyes. His pupils are wide and dark and staring right into Crowley’s soul. He starts only a little when Crowley puts his hand over Aziraphale’s, feeling the gentle warmth of his skin.

“Hey,” Crowley says, his voice so low it is almost a whisper.

It still sounds loud in the sudden quiet, with only the faint tapping of rain against the window outside.

“Yes?” Aziraphale breathes, his voice matching.

There is a faint blush in his cheeks, a sort of breathless quality to the way his is watching Crowley, gaze flicking around his face, briefly down to his mouth. Which is what gives Crowley the courage to finish his sentence.

“Would you mind terribly if I kissed you right now?” 

“I- I want that very much,” Aziraphale whispers.

So Crowley, painfully aware that he looks fairly ridiculous in this sweater, his hair still excruciatingly terrible and damp, gets out of his chair, ignoring the distinct wet shape where he’s sat, and stalks around the table until he can lean down, put a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek (as soft as he has imagined), tilting his face up. He looks at him once more, to confirm that yes, this is actually something he wants. Aziraphale’s eyes are dark, and the blush in his cheeks just a little deeper, and so Crowley leans in and softly presses his lips to Aziraphale’s. 

“’S that- okay?” Crowley asks, and cringes at his own awkwardness.

“I- I don’t quite know,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley’s heart sinks, “I think you had better do it again, so I can be sure.”

Crowley snorts a laugh, and Aziraphale looks terribly pleased with himself. So Crowley leans down and kisses him again, and feels Aziraphale’s lips, soft and plush, move against his own. He represses a moan as Aziraphale’s hand slips into his hair, a sensation he imagines would be even more pleasant if his hair wasn’t clinging to itself in wet clumps.

“This is good,” Crowley murmurs against Aziraphale’s lips without thinking.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees.

Crowley is still standing at an awkward angle, and his back is starting to point out that it does not enjoy this, and so he straightens up, but only physically, which breaks the moment up, just a little. Crowley is suddenly too aware of how uncomfortably wet his jeans still are, how the soft patter of the rain has nearly stopped now.

“I had uh, better get home, maybe,” he hears himself saying.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “oh, err, yes of course. Do feel- feel free to keep the jumper, if you’d like.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asks, fingering the too short sleeves.

“Absolutely. And let me lend you an umbrella as well. Just in case the rain starts back up, you know.”

Crowley is properly fussed with before he leaves, and he genuinely cannot remember ever feeling this _cared_ for in… Well, ever. Aziraphale presses a horribly ugly and old fashioned umbrella into his hand and gives him a very shy and very sweet kiss on the cheek. 

He has time to think about the implications of this on his walk home. The rain doesn’t resume, but he splashes through puddles the whole way, and his snakeskin boots are thoroughly soaked by the time he gets to his building. The thoughts aren’t good, not really, they aren’t the comfort or reassurance he needs, only reminders about other things. Older things. Things he doesn’t care to remember. So when he gets in, and hangs his wet clothes to dry, he arranges the jumper Aziraphale made into a rough nest shape, and shrugs off his limbs and hair and eyelids and curls into a tight coil inside the woolly mess.

-

The next morning Crowley wakes up to a few new notifications. 

**@Aziraphale_Z_Fell** is now following you

 **@Aziraphale_Z_Fell** likes your photo (89)

 **@Aziraphale_Z_Fell** has left a comment on your photo: Hello, Crowley! It is me, Aziraphale, from the bookshop. And yesterday. Please tell your plants from me that they are delightful! Sincerely, Aziraphale_Z_Fell


	16. Angelic Anxieties

As soon as he sends Crowley out into the dark and only barely drizzling night, Aziraphale almost collapses against the wall. He hasn’t allowed himself to quite process what happened yet, and so he clutches his hands together as he stares unseeing into the darkness of his shop. Crowley kissed him. Crowley kissed him, and he asked first, twice, and it was- oh it was very good. He presses a finger to his lips, still slightly swollen. The ghost of Crowley’s touch lingers on his cheek.

Aziraphale goes and makes himself another cup of tea. He doesn’t really want it, but it’s something for his hands to be doing while his brain is a nebulous sort of light grey colour filled with nothing but exclamation marks. Crowley had kissed him and it was good. Very good, in fact. The thing is, Aziraphale hadn’t really intended on developing feelings for Crowley. That wasn’t part of the great plan. Which, all right, fair is fair, was perhaps never the most clear plan, never completely effable, even to himself but. But it wasn’t this.

Originally, Aziraphale was just going to accept the first date because Tracy told him to, and because it would be an excuse for a nice meal. He had, by that time, started to sort of like Crowley, but more in a quiet appreciation of someone having been able to accept criticism and respect his boundary sort of way. He was going to go out with him, and have a nice meal, and that was going to be _it_ end of story. But. But.

Crowley is nice. He tries to pretend he isn’t, but that’s just nonsense. He tries really very hard to seem like some cool and unaffected person, but Aziraphale sees the way he lights up when talking about plants, or snakes, or, on a few occasions, snake plants. How he will lean his chin in his hand and watch and listen with rapt attention while Aziraphale talks, almost regardless of what it’s about (usually books or food). Does he just like Crowley because Crowley likes him? Aziraphale doesn’t think so, though it certainly is a nice change to feel wanted. But no. Because Crowley is also quite handsome, he gets endearingly nervous on occasion. He respects Aziraphale, and that is something he experiences more seldom than he would like.

Aziraphale finishes his tea, and locks the shop up properly before retreating back up to his small flat. It feels dark and cold, now, the clammy feel of November rain having crept through microscopic cracks. He shivers and worries for Crowley, walking home wet and cold. Oh, he does hope he doesn’t get a cold. Ought he have offered to let him stay the night? Or would that have seemed like he had offered- well, something entirely different? Not that he has an objection to that, but it’s far too early yet. Far too early for him, at any rate, and Crowley, blessedly, seems content to take it at whatever pace Aziraphale is comfortable with.

Book. He spends ten minutes or so lingering by the bookshelf dedicated to those books he hasn’t had a chance to read yet, trying to choose a good one, though his mind keeps drifting. All the while as he gets ready for bed he tries to think about what he is supposed to be thinking about; his book, a new shipment of old finds he has purchased, that one exquisite book he is restoring, which the owner wants done soon, but all his brain can concentrate on is red hair, an elegant hand resting on his cheek, and soft lips on his. 

-

Aziraphale has gone to the park a number of times in the last few weeks, but he hasn’t seen the little snake at all. He wonders if it has disappeared into hibernation. Does snakes hibernate? They probably do. Probably the English winter, mild as it may be, is a bit too chilly for them. But this isn’t a native snake, he reminds himself, and so it probably isn’t used to having to do so. Oh, the little thing is going to freeze to death, isn’t it? Granted it’s not been below zero yet, and it might not get that cold, what with the state of the world these days, but still. This is bad.

The phone rings three times before a voice grumbles what might have been a greeting. Aziraphale twirls the cord of his telephone around his fingers, belatedly realising that perhaps even Crowley’s fancy phone would be unable to recognise the shop’s number.

“Crowley? It’s me, Aziraphale. From the-”

“’Ziraphale, yeah! Hi. Hello.”

The voice, though still hoarse, sounds suddenly a lot more pleasant. It’s almost as if Crowley has just woken up, although it’s three in the afternoon, and so that seems unlikely. Perhaps from a nap? But then, Crowley doesn’t strike him as the sort of man who naps. It seems somehow too cosy and vulnerable a thing for him to do. 

“Hello. How are you?”

This elicits… some sort of response from Crowley. A sound of the shuffling of fabric, a series of consonants that seem only to be connected to each other or indeed any sort of meaning in the loosest of senses, then the soft noise of footsteps.

“Awake,” Crowley concludes after a moment.

“I- I didn’t- Crowley, it’s three in the afternoon.”

“So it is,” Crowley agrees, and yawns.

“Was, uh. Was there a reason you called me?” Crowley asks when Aziraphale doesn’t quite manage to think up a reply fast enough, “not that you need one, lovely to hear from you.”

He yawns again, but from farther away, like he’s trying to hide it.

“Oh, oh yes. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah? God ahead.”

Aziraphale has, by now, twirled the entirety of the length of phone cord around his fingers, like someone with too much of an enthusiasm for rings.

“You’re a snake person, right?”

There is a choked noise from the other end of the line.

“I mean, you said you had a pet snake, and you know about them, and I, ah, I suppose I’d like to ask for your help with something.”

“Oh. Oh! Yes. Can do. Err. Want to meet up or do you have a list of questions prepared?”

“I’d love to see you,” Aziraphale replies, his face feeling just a little hot.

That hadn’t come out exactly the way he had meant it to, although it was no less true.

“Today?”

“If that works for you.”

It’s a Sunday, and the shop is closed, and so Aziraphale crosses his fingers that Crowley doesn’t have something better to do. Something more… more fun than hanging round a dusty old bookshop with its dusty old shopkeeper. Although, Crowley is the one who started this in the first place, so Aziraphale really doesn’t know why he keeps feeling anxious all of a sudden. Feelings, he decides, are inconvenient.

“Sure, yeah. Give me an hour and I can be at yours, yeah?”

“I’ll- I’ll look forward to it.”

“Ggbk. Yup. Me too. Ye- see you.”

And with that, Crowley hangs up, not waiting for a reply. He had seemed flustered, but probably that was just because he had been unexpectedly woken. Aziraphale can understand that would be jarring, even though he does find it odd the man isn’t already, well, awake.

-

He strolls in a little more than an hour later. Or, well, he attempts to, anyway, only Aziraphale’s apparently forgotten he invited him, because the shop is locked. Although it might be to not let customers in. Crowley knocks. When that doesn’t elicit any response, neither the first nor the second time, he sends Aziraphale a text. It’s just a snake emoji, which feels a bit risky, given what Aziraphale had asked him earlier, but to anyone else it would be innocuous enough. It’s just a coincidence, yeah?

Aziraphale lets him in about two minutes later, apologising profusely for not having heard the knock. This time, Crowley is escorted deeper into the shop, then up, and through the locked door leading to the half of the upper floor that is Aziraphale’s flat. It looks different in the waning light of afternoon, lamps giving the potentially dark space a warm glow, just as the sun is threatening to fuck off, as it likes to do this time of year. There is a short corridor, with a door either side, one closed, another open a crack, enough so that Crowley can spot the hint of a large rectangular object. Bedroom, then.

He follows Aziraphale into the room the end of the corridor opens into; a combination living room and kitchen. Although, well, living room is perhaps the wrong word for it. Reading room? That used to be a thing, didn’t it? And it’s precisely the sort of room Aziraphale would have in place of a living room. And it implies fewer intruders than a library. 

The room is oblong, a small kitchen tucked in one end, with a tiny table with two chairs seemingly filling the role of dining table. One of the chairs, not surprisingly, holds a stack of books. The rest of the room is lined with bookshelves, and there is a small collection of mismatched armchairs surrounding a small coffee table, upon which are also stacks of books. 

“Just sit down, I’ll get us both some tea,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley finds the least ugly chair, curling up on it because a side effect of snake spine is the inability to sit in chairs properly. Several of the books on the table, he notes, are about snakes. Could it be Aziraphale suspects something? Has Crowley been too careless, made too many puns? But then, if Aziraphale had any suspicions, would he invite him over for tea to talk about it? No. Probably not. Right?

A steaming mug (again the black devil theme one, matching Aziraphale’s one with angel wings) is set down on the table in front of him, and Aziraphale settles in the chair next to him, which is marginally uglier, but looks more comfortable.

“So,” Crowley says carefully, “you have snake questions?”

“Oh! Yes. Well, see. You remember, back when we first met, I told you I had found a snake, yes?”

“I remember,” Crowley confirms, trying to keep his face properly neutral, to give nothing away.

“And then, ah, it did get lost. In my shop. For two weeks or so?”

Crowley frowns.

“Don’t believe you told me this part. Sounds, uh, a bit risky. How’d it go?”

“Uh. It, err, got lost again. And I think perhaps it went to live in the wilderness again. Err. By which I mean St. James’ Park.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound good. Cold there this time of year.”

“Exactly!” Aziraphale says, and puts his hand on Crowley’s arm.

His eyes are wide and he sounds distraught. Crowley’s eyes flick down to his hand. A moment passes. He takes a deep breath, and then puts his own one on top of Aziraphale’s. His hand feels soft and warm, and it takes him another moment to realise he’s probably meant to respond.

“And, uh. Was not a native species, you said?”

“Definitely not. It was far too colourful, and it acted very tame.”

Crowley bristles at this. He’s not tame in the least. Just happened to really like Aziraphale is all. But he can’t argue, so he simply makes a non-committal noise.

“Won’t last. Unless it’s been picked up by a shelter. Or another herpetologically inclined bookshopkeeper, I suppose.”

“Oh, do you think so? No chance of finding it?”

Crowley grimaces, and starts to regret this situation which might be a tiny little bit partially his own fault. But mostly, uh. Fate? Though it has lead to him being here, in Aziraphale’s flat, their hands still touching, neither of them ready to break the contact. So that’s not… Not too bad, he supposes.

“I just… I think it’s unlikely, Aziraphale, I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

He looks so sad, and Crowley’s whole being hurts. He squeezes his hand.

“Maybe like you said, there’s someone else who is taking care of it?” Crowley suggests, trying his best to psychically communicate that the snake in question is feeling very happy and comfortable and taken care of right now.

Fuck, he wants to curl around him. Not because holding his hand isn’t perfect and lovely, but because it’s a different kind of nice. He wants to tell him really quite badly. And he never can.


	17. Graphic Interlude II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've messed up my arm and shoulder and back, and doing anything, whether drawing or writing, without making it massively worse is really hard right now. Working on figuring out some speech to text situation, but here is a small Crowley doodle from a while ago as an apology and explanation. Also I was pretty happy with how this guy looks.


	18. Rainy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of their earlier snake information based date.

That night, Crowley ends up staying over. It’s not a planned thing, not at all, but it just sort of happens. He spends some time trying to make up for making Aziraphale feel sad about his inability to help the snake. Again he tries hard to, without saying anything out loud, communicate to Aziraphale that the snake is right here, and feeling very well taken care of right now, even if it has some feedback on the tea choices happening in this bookshop.

“It’s all right, they’re probably safe with their chosen human, yeah? Not seen any more posters, so no reason to think someone’s out there missing them.”

“I suppose you’re right, dear boy, I just- I worry. You know? It is a bit silly, worrying about it when there are so many animals out there who suffer and die, but…”

“But you got to know this one. Totally understandable. Can’t care equally about everyone.”

Aziraphale worries at a loose thread on his sleeve, brows still knotted in a frown.

“I should, though,” he insists, “every creature is worthy of my care and love.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Even customers who spill things on your books?”

“Well,” Aziraphale begins, and Crowley laughs.

He wants, really quite badly, to kiss Aziraphale right now. He’s not sure they are at random kisses yet, though, so he puts a hand over Aziraphale’s and squeezes.

“I suppose the Adversary must have someone to judge too. Much like the moulds that grow on books.”

“Those are- those are the only two, are there?”

“All that come to mind,” Aziraphale replies primly.

“You are a ridiculous and absurdly adorable man,” Crowley tells him, then pretends to sip from his empty mug to make it seem less heartfelt.

When he glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, he’s blushing, suddenly terribly interested in the book in front of him. Okay. Good? Probably good.

Crowley ends up explaining a lot about snakes to Aziraphale, and only accidentally says “we” once, which he feels is a win. He talks about how they live, how long some of them can live, the different types and colours. Which are venomous, which have what he describes as more playful, innocent bites. Aziraphale looks dubious at this.

“Not that I want to drag their biblical role into this, but can snake bites really be playful and innocent?”

Crowley shrugs.

“Cats get to bite innocently. Dogs too, they just get too enthusiastic about stuff. Probably rabbits too. All teeth, those guys. But they’re more commonly seen as cute, so they get away with it. Most animals can bite when they’re scared or stressed or upset. That’s gonna happen.”

“Oh. I hadn’t really thought about it like that. Never had a pet.”

“No?”

Over the hours Crowley’s chair has moved closer to Aziraphale’s. They started out a good two feet apart, now there’s only a few inches. And Crowley isn’t completely certain it’s all his doing, either. Which makes his chest feel funny. Even if they are… Sort of a couple? He’d asked Anathema how you tell, was it something to do with facebook stati? And she had laughed at him and called him old. Which, well, is her response to a lot of his questions. Which is, horrifyingly, pretty accurate. So he still isn’t sure where they stand. Could he, as Anathema had previously suggested, “just fucking ask him”? Yes, theoretically. Realistically, though? No! What kind of absurd thing to ask is that? What if he says they’re just friends? Nope. Not risking it.

“My- well. Never allowed one, when I was young. And I suppose it wasn’t my top priority, after. Had enough to do figuring myself out, I think.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, not entirely sure how to respond to this, because it sounds like not a cheery subject.

So. Jokey deflection? Jokey deflection.

“Trick I found is you got to have secret pets. Go out in the wild, find a small adder and take it back and hide it in your room because it looks friendly.”

“Secret?”

Aziraphale sounds scandalised, his eyes all wide. Fuck he’s cute. Crowley really has fallen for him. It’s pathetic, and he can’t find it in himself to mind at all.

“Wouldn’t your parents find out?”

Crowley shrugs.

“They didn’t… Didn’t care so much. When they were there.”

“Oh? Why- I mean. If it is something you’re comfortable to talk about?”

Crowley shrugs again, uncomfortable. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging the bun loose so his hair falls in front of his face a bit. Just like when he was a teenager. Hah. 

“They just. Never really wanted a kid, I think. Mum left, pretty early on. And then came back, eventually, and kicked me out instead. But mostly I got just. Left to myself. Self-raised. Heh. Anyway. No one to check whether there was a primitive terrarium in my room. Course, the adder escaped after a few days. Had a couple of frogs for a while. A rat once. Didn’t like me, that one. A- Well. Yeah. Anyway. Easy to get away with.”

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, and he’s looking at him with those big shiny eyes.

There’s a lamp behind him, positioned just so that right now it lights up his fluffy white blonde curls like a halo. He wonders if that’s deliberate. No. It can’t be, can it?

“Not quite your experience, then?”

“Ah, no. My parents were… Quite controlling, I suppose. They would check our rooms every day, make sure we didn’t have anything we weren’t supposed to. I- oh, this is quite naughty, but I had a terribly complicated system built into my bed to hide whatever book I wasn’t supposed to read. When they discovered it- Well. That was not a very good year.”

“Oh. That- that doesn’t sound great either.”

“Rather the opposite problem, I suppose,” Aziraphale agrees.

They fall silent for a moment, each struggling to think of something sensible to say. The quiet is broken only when Aziraphale’s stomach rumbles.

“Oh, ah, sorry,” he mutters, looking away.

Crowley gets up, and walks over to the window. It has started to rain, surprisingly hard.

“Hmm. Time to order in? Get some dinner?” he suggests, “weather’s too shit to go out.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, following him.

“Ah,” he adds, seeing the way the rain blurs the street lights, “yes. Ordering in seems a splendid idea, actually. Any thoughts?”

Crowley circles around him, mainly because that way the light hits Aziraphale just right, illuminating his face beautifully.

“Hmm. Cold out. Indian?”

They get their food about forty five minutes later, and eat at the coffee table. Crowley had looked at what was clearly intended, under all the books, to be a dining table, but Aziraphale had waved him away.

“That’s where the books live,” he had explained. 

Crowley hadn’t dared question him.

Watching Aziraphale eat is, as always, a delight. He takes such joy in food, and it just makes Crowley lean harder into his habit of just inhaling his food, lingering instead over the beer he had with it, curling up in the chair and just watching Aziraphale. Listening to his tiny little moans of pleasure, delighted little gasps. Sounds that may or may not have featured in some less than safe for work fantasies of Crowley’s.

“So,” Crowley asks, daringly going back to the risky sad childhood topic from before, “you becoming a bookshop man, that’s your rebellion?”

“Among other things,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Yeah?” Crowley asks, edging his chair ever closer.

“Well, my life style in general, I suppose. At the very least, in the sense that everything I do and want seems to be the opposite of what I am supposed to want to do.”

“Hmm. Sounds like you’re making excellent life choices, then.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale asks, with a raised eyebrows.

“Yeah. Making choices for yourself. Doing what you want. Doing things for you, rather than for someone else. Might not always be the best choices, certainly hasn’t been in mine, but it’s better to suffer from your own mistakes than what others make you do. And you seem. Y’know. Happy. Like the choices you made were good ones.”

Crowley leans on his chin on his hand, brushing his hair, currently very insistent on falling into his eyes and obscuring his view of Aziraphale, which would be an awful shame. There’s only a few small lamps here, shining soft and warm. One of them clearly needs its bulb changed soon, because it flickers a bit, giving just the slightest hint of fire light.

“Well. They have all lead me to right here, right now. And that’s not- This is a pretty good place to be at, I think,” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah?”

Crowley nudges the chair the last inches, leaning over into Aziraphale’s space, looking up into his face, a silent question on his lips. Aziraphale seems to agree, because he closes the distance between them, kissing Crowley, all soft and chaste. He runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, tugging at it, gently, but enough tell Crowley that oh. Oh this is something he likes very much indeed.

“I agree,” Crowley says, leaning up and over and he’s halfway into Aziraphale’s lap, now, his legs bent under him in a slightly painful way, but how can he care when this is happening?

“Lots of good choices. From both of us.”

“Hmm. Would you like to come a little closer, dear? I’m not sure a spine should be able to bend that way, that can’t be comfortable.”

Crowley makes a noise of agreement, shifting himself over until he is actually in Aziraphale’s lap. He has been, before, though not with skin that feels so much easier. And oh, it is lovely. Aziraphale tugs him closer, pulls him into another kiss. He tastes like what they’ve been eating, which probably Crowley does too. Hazard of spicy food. 

It feels… divine. Heavenly. Which aren’t Crowley’s go to descriptors, but right now they seem to be right. Aziraphale is so soft and warm beneath him, a perfect contrast to how angular and cold blooded he himself is. Gentle hands holding him close. Soft lips on his. Noses bumping into each other and gentle laughter, breath mingling. The rain has gotten noisy, now, pounding against the window pane in the background. It makes Crowley ever more certain he never wants to leave, wants to stay in this exact space forever. This moment.

He leans back, pressing kisses to Aziraphale’s cheeks. They crinkle up into a bright smile, and Crowley can feel his own face echoing it automatically. He has known for a long time that he’s in love with this man, but it hits him again, like a train at full speed, flooring him. Overwhelming, like he can’t breathe for a moment, the emotion clasping his ribs tight around his lungs, not letting them expand. 

“I was wondering,” Aziraphale breathes, looking up at hi. m with bright and hopeful eyes, “I mean. The rain, and everything. And it’s getting so very late…”

It’s only about ten thirty, but Crowley can guess where this is going and is not about to argue.

“Uh-huh?” he encourages.

“I mean. You could. Ah. That is-”

He seems to be struggling with the question, even though Crowley is literally sitting in his lap, looking at him with the most enthusiastic and encouraging face he can muster.

“Stay?”

The hope in his face is so endearing that for a moment Crowley simply basks in the joy of the question having been asked, forgetting to reply until Aziraphale starts to look worried.

“Yea- course. Course I want to stay,” he says, rushing to the end of the sentence so he can punctuate it with a kiss.

“Oh! Oh, splendid!”

It’s a while before they manage to move from where they are, all wrapped up in each other, but when they do Aziraphale shows him the bedroom. It’s small, and crammed with bookshelves. The bed itself seems almost an afterthought, albeit a cosy one. Tartan throws and embroidered pillows of the kind Crowley associates with grandparents. In other words, it is almost exactly what he’s expected. There’s even a forgotten cup of tea halfway under the bed, which Aziraphale valiantly attempts to kick out of view.

Aziraphale lets Crowley have the bathroom first. This, Crowley is more familiar with. Aziraphale has found him an unopened toothbrush, and Crowley wonders whether it has been here for ages or it was bought with him in mind. He hopes for the last.

In the bedroom he strips down to his t-shirt (soft, black, has the Queen crest on it) and boxers (also black, sadly not available with the Queen crest. He’s checked. They have little squiggly lines in red that had, when he bought them, reminded him of snakes.), and arranges himself in what he hopes is a sexy pose on the bed. He accentuates it with the nearest book he can find, holding it open at random. It’s probably, he thinks, the sort of thing Aziraphale is into. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims, a soft blush on his face.

He is, Crowley sees, wearing full tartan pyjamas and fuzzy socks. So maybe, perhaps, Crowley has misconstrued the intent of the situation just a tiny bit. But the top two buttons are unbuttoned, revealing a tiny sliver of curled hair that catches the light. Crowley grins, lazily, and flops down on the bed proper. 

“Sorry, thought I’d impress you with my literacy,” he tries, glancing at the book cover, “but I absolutely do not speak- is this Spanish?”

“Portuguese,” Aziraphale corrects gently, “I can’t either, but it was a gift, and that’s my unread book pile.

“What?” Crowley asks, “those five on the night stand? That’s all?”

“Oh, my dear, no. This room.”

And Crowley can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds right. Well, come here, then. I’m sure you can recommend me something in a language I speak.”

They do not, as Crowley had guessed, end up doing anything more exciting than sleeping together that night. They talk, for a while more, laying close together, kissing some, but there’s closeness. There is almost accidental cuddling. Crowley falls asleep first, because that has always been a particular skill of his. His dreams, for once cooperative, is of Aziraphale. A soft and gentle light surrounding him, watching over him, keeping him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long. Gonna try hard to procrastinate on my other fic by writing this one, at least for another chapter, promise.


	19. Snawakenings (Snake Awakenings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes up to a snurprise

It doesn’t happen until the fourth time Crowley stays over. By this time, they have also gone on several more dates, and have sort of both settled into the idea that they are in a proper relationship now. Or at least, Aziraphale has. After frantically asking Tracy how one is meant to know. And then texting Crowley and asking him. Which apparently isn’t, really, what one is supposed to do, but it had worked well enough.

Over these four times, Aziraphale has learned a few things about how Crowley sleeps. Deeply, for one thing. He falls asleep in minutes, which is very strange to Aziraphale, who had assumed everyone else also needed to read for a few hours before managing to drift off. Another thing he has learned is that Crowley is surprisingly tactile when he isn’t awake enough to be self conscious about it. He will wrap himself around Aziraphale, his face pressed into his side, a varying number of arms and legs thrown over him. It’s very sweet, although Crowley, the one time he had woken up like this, had seemed terribly embarrassed. It’s silly, Aziraphale thinks, because he thinks it’s quite adorable, but that doesn’t seem like a word he is comfortable having used about himself.

They haven’t done anything more than strictly sleep together yet, with some cuddling and kissing thrown in. This too they have talked about. Not because Aziraphale had taken the initiative to, well, anything, but because Crowley had asked, very carefully, whether Aziraphale was possibly asexual.

“Not that I mind, obviously, totally fine with that. Only, be good to know, y’know?”

Which had flustered and, frankly, confused Aziraphale. But Crowley’s eyes had been big and full of understanding, soft and golden, and that had helped.

“I- no. I don’t… I don’t think so? But, well. I would- I would like to wait. If that’s all right?”

“Course! Course, yeah, anything you need, Angel. Only want you to be happy.”

And then Aziraphale hadn’t been able to think about anything other than the pet name for the rest of that day, a little blush creeping into his cheeks whenever he remembered. 

So when Aziraphale wakes up, and feels a weight on his stomach, he assumes it is Crowley’s arm. Naturally. What else would it be? He blinks, sleepily, and yawns. A little light streams in past the edges of the curtain of the small window. He turns his head to see if it hits Crowley’s beautiful hair from here, and frowns, because the other side of the bed is empty, the duvet deflated, a few red hairs on the pillow. Wait. So what is- he lifts the duvet up, frowning, and yelps.

There, on his belly, is a spiral of black coils. It shifts, moves at the noise, a pair of bright yellow eyes looking up at him. A dark tongue flicks out. It looks around, and then seems, oddly, to flinch. When the head peaks up, Aziraphale sees that it has a dark red underbelly. It doesn’t move, not at all, doesn’t rear back to bite, so- So it must be the one from earlier? Which doesn’t make any sense at all. Has it been hiding in his flat all this time? Surely it can’t! It has been months! Although, odds are, there are a couple of little mice lurking, he supposes it can have lived off those.

“Hello there,” he says carefully.

The snake continues to look at him blankly. Aziraphale frowns.

“Did you see where Crowley went? He’s the, uh, tall long human who shares your colour scheme. The bathroom, perhaps.”

The snake doesn’t react, except a sort of nervous twitch of its tail. Aziraphale pets the smooth scales, warmed by, presumably, his own body heat. The snake leans into the touch, pressing its body into him.

“He knows quite a lot about snakes, you know,” Aziraphale tells the snake, “I bet he will like you. Perhaps, if you don’t live anywhere but here, he can give you a home? He told me, you know, that he had a snake not too long ago who- well. Who is no longer with him, as it were. And I’m sure he would welcome a beautiful little thing like you into his home.”

The snake butts his head into Aziraphale’s hand, demanding further petting. He is starting to wonder where Crowley can have gotten to. So he tries to lift the snake up to lay around his neck. It doesn’t seem to want to.

“Don’t you want to come with me to look for Crowley?” Aziraphale asks it, as if it could answer.

It doesn’t. It slides off of him as he sits up, slithering onto his pillow as he leaves it, and curling up again, tucking its head halfway under itself.

“All right, then. I’ll bring him back.”

Aziraphale goes to check the bathroom first, knocking, waiting for a minute, and then knocking again, but there is no response.

“Crowley? I am terribly sorry if you’re in there, but I’m just going to crack the door open, all right?”

He opens the door, just a little, and then all the way, seeing it is dark and empty. Odd.

“Crowley?” he calls, walking over to the door that leads into the shop, but no. 

His boots and jacket are still there. Well. Good. All right. He goes back through to the open living room, but there isn’t any sign of Crowley here either. Odd. But there is a thumping sound from the bedroom. Perhaps the snake has fallen off the bed? 

“’Zira?” he hears, muffled, from in there.

“Crowley! There you are,” Aziraphale exclaims, hurrying into the bedroom.

He finds Crowley standing there, looking a little confused, hair sticking out at odd angles, rubbing his arm self consciously.

“Where did you go? I looked for you.”

“Uh,” Crowley says, blinking tiredly, frowning, “uh. Sorry. Went to get some water. Must’ve uuh. Must’ve missed you.”

He sits down on the bed, squirming in under the covers. Aziraphale frowns.

“We’re going back to bed? It’s nearly half past nine.”

Crowley groans. 

“’S a Sunday, Angel. I’m still sleepy, and you’re very nice and warm.”

“I suppose that’s- hold on. Where did the snake go?”

Crowley looks at him wide eyed for a moment.

“Snake?”

“Yes! The one I’ve told you about, it was right- right there. On the pillow.”

Crowley makes an unintelligible noise.

“Uh. Can’t see one.”

“No, right here, it was- oh. That’s very strange.”

He looks under the duvet, under the bed, behind the book cases, but it is nowhere to be found. Crowley seems equally unconcerned and unsurprised. Which is odd, isn’t it? But perhaps he’s too sleepy to care. Or maybe it was a very vivid dream? No, that can’t be it, can it? He walks quickly around the flat, looking for anything snaky, but the closest thing he finds is the little tattoo on the side of Crowley’s face. He presses a kiss there, before joining Crowley in bed. He is immediately enveloped in long limbs, Crowley’s head coming to rest on his chest. Almost constricting. Very sweet.

“You think a snake could live in the shop secretly for months?”

Crowley makes a twitching motion around him that may be an attempt at a shrug.

“Dunno. Maybe? If there’s things to eat. Only need to once in a while, you know. Perfectly happy to make a nest in some cosy books, maybe. How often you check every hidden corner?”

“Not, perhaps, often enough.” Aziraphale admits.

He looks down at the pile of red hair resting on his chest. Strokes a hand over it and feeling Crowley lean into his touch. Almost like- no, weird. 

“By the way, do you have anywhere you need to be today? I was thinking we could go for a walk. And there is this lovely new bakery I’ve been wanting to try.”

“Yeah? Sounds good. In a while. Again. You’re very soft and warm,” Crowley replies, and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s chest.

“And you’ll help me look for the snake, quickly? Just in case?”

Crowley hesitates for a moment, tensing a little.

“Nng. Right. Sure. We’ll, uh, we’ll look.”

He’s silent for a few minutes before he groans and sits up. Runs his hands through his hair with more aggression than seems like is strictly necessary.

“There’s… There’s something I need to tell you.”


	20. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, for once in his life, is honest.

“There’s- there’s something I need to tell you,” Crowley forces himself to say.

Because at this point it’s weird and rude not to, because he can’t gaslight Aziraphale, can’t make him think he’s seeing things, or forever feel a secret snake is lurking around his shop and flat, making him worry. No, that’s not fair to him. And shit, Crowley can admit to himself he’s deeply in love with Aziraphale, convinced he is the one (although in fairness that’s just what being in love is like, but he can help but feel certain that this time, he’s The One, more than anyone else ever has been) and that means one should be honest, right? Honesty and communication? He hears rumours those are essentials of healthy romantic relationships.

“Or show you, rather,” he continues, forcing himself to meet Aziraphale’s concerned and confused eyes.

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, voice carefully neutral.

“And it’s- it’s really hard for me to do. Want you to understand that. It’s something I’ve told… Well. One person. Once. And uh. And they became convinced they were hallucinating, going mad. And when I tried to explain, that we both were. Some folie à deux situation. Got both of us on drugs. Sometimes even ones from a doctor. It, uh. It wasn’t pretty.”

He shifts, sitting cross legged and picking at a loose strand in the duvet cover, eyes flicking up to meet Aziraphale’s. They looked worried. Looking down again, Crowley curses. Curses himself and this situation and that this is something he has to explain at all. It’s not like it’s something he’s chosen. No more than he has who he is attracted to or the colour of his eyes. Well, except the year he experimented with coloured contacts. The less said about that the better.

“It’s all right, Crowley,” Aziraphale tells him, voice soothing, a hand on his knee, “you can tell me.”

Crowley takes a few deep breaths.

“Right. It’s gonna be… Gonna be weird. Like you’re not going to believe it, but I promise you it’s real.”

“Oh, it can’t be that dramatic, can it? It’s not like you’re going to tell me you’re a demon sent from Hell to corrupt me,” Aziraphale jokes.

Crowley laughs, but it’s a high pitched and frantic sound, born of stress rather than mirth. 

“No,” he agrees, “not a demon. Though you might legit be an angel.”

He’s putting it off, stalling. They both know it.

“You’d better sit down for this,” Crowley warns.

“I- Crowley, I’m laying in bed. I doubt I shall manage to fall off it.”

“Right. Right.”

Crowley rubs at his temples, touches the snake on his face for luck. For inspiration.

“I’m going to show you,” he says again, “and it’s going to be quick, and it’s going to freak you out.”

“You won’t tell me first? Give me a warning, if it’s as distressing as you claim?”

Crowley sighs, groans, picks up a pillow and buries his face in it.

“’m ashney,” he says into the pillow.

“Sorry?”

“I’m a snake,” Crowley repeats, clearer this time.

“Oh, Crowley, no need to be so hard on yourself. You’ve been nothing but honest and kind to me after that first time. And honestly, I blame that on your job. No one can work in sales and not have it bleed a little bit into their personality, I think.”

Crowley frowns, thrown out of his worry by a mixture of confusion and indignation.

“Hey. Snakes aren’t an insult. And Aziraphale, I hate to tell you this, but you run a shop. You are, by definition, also in sales.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale replies, an almost smug index finger held aloft, “but I only very rarely sell things.”

Crowley can’t help a smile at that. Aziraphale’s little self satisfied expression is incredibly endearing, and he wants to kiss it away. Later. Later.

“Besides,” he says, flexing whatever magical muscle it is that helps him do this, “I meant literally.”

And he lets himself shift. The transformation is instantaneous. No looking like the weird covers of those kids books, no grotesque middle stage, half man and half serpent. No. Human one second, snake the next. He slithers out of his now vast tent of a t-shirt.

“Crowley? Did you disa- oh good lord!”

Crowley emerges into the light, looking up at Aziraphale. He slithers closer, up onto the duvet covering Aziraphale’s belly. Aziraphale flinches a little. Which hurts, it hurts a lot.

“Is- oh heavens, is that you, Crowley?”

Crowley nods emphatically. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, leaning down, leaning closer, running a hesitant finger over Crowley’s scales.

“You certainly look lovely like this,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley wonders whether he has gone into shock.

“Would you- I mean. Can you turn back? Or is it- Do you need time?”

Crowley slithers back down to his side of the bed -and it’s a delight to think that there is a side of Aziraphale’s bed that is his, whatever happens next- onto his abandoned shirt, and changes back. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims, blushing prettily, and looking away.

And this is, Crowley realises, the first time the angel has seen him naked.

“Sorry,” he says, doing the acrobatics of pulling on his boxers without actually getting off the bed.

“Can’t shift the clothes,” he explains, “but all decent now.”

He sees Aziraphale’s gaze flick down to his naked torso, the blush lingering at the tips of his ears. It’s a very satisfying sight.

“Look,” he asks, “are you all right? I feel like by now you should be screaming, or questioning your sanity or something. ‘S what most people would do.”

“I’m religious,” Aziraphale says, as if that explains anything.

“And? Unless you worship Quetzalcoatl or, I don’t know, Jormundgand or something, I don’t really see the relevance.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says calmly, too calmly, “I believe in a higher power. So something supernatural is not so far off. Through God all things are possible. And if She means for you to be a serpent occasionally, well. Who am I to disagree?”

“I- uh. All right. You’re taking this shockingly well, I gotta say.”

“Well, I won’t deny it’s surprising, shocking, even, but you did warn me. I suppose I ought to have taken you at your word. And, well, this certainly explains some things.”

Crowley frowns.

“It does?”

“Your affinity for snakes, for one thing. And the fact you never seem to chew your food. And why you cling to me as if you’ve no body heat of your own.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, looking away, busying himself with putting his shirt back on, “sorry.”

“Oh, no, my dear, I don’t mind at all. It’s quite nice, in fact.”

Crowley’s blush, fortunately, is hidden by the shirt currently over his head.

“Right. Good. Excellent. Will keep doing that, then.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Aziraphale looking at Crowley curiously. He feels a bit like a zoo exhibit, but then, he supposes that’s fair. Just for now.

“I suppose those scales, then, are real and not a tattoo?”

“What?”

“Those, the three behind your ear? I thought they were just a really quite realistic tattoo.”

Crowley feels behind both his ears, skin, skin, and- huh. Three tiny scales. Weird. He’s pretty sure those didn’t use to be there.

“Uh,” he says, “yeah. I- Yeah.”

No need to get into that detail just here and now. He shifts up so he’s sitting next to Aziraphale, leaning against the pillows. Partly for comfort, partly to avoid eye contact.

“So. How is- that is to say, what- err. How?”

Crowley shrugs.

“Don’t know. Just. Been able to do it all my life. Or at least since I was little. Maybe I was bitten by some sort of weresnake before that, but in that case I don’t remember it. Haven’t touched any cursed amulets or insulted any witches. Well, unless you count Anathema. But I didn’t meet her until a couple years ago, and this happened a literal decade before she was born, so it can’t exactly be her doing, not even as psychic as she claims to be.”

“And do you- I mean. Are there others?”

“Not that I’ve been able to find. Not outside fiction or folklore.”

“Oh. Oh, my dear, that must be dreadfully lonely.”

Aziraphale pulls him into a hug, and it is, perhaps, the most loving, comforting and accepting gesture Crowley has ever felt. He melts into it, and this is it. Crowley loves Aziraphale. Not only is in love with him, but loves him, with all his heart. Would die for him. Will swear his loyalty to him for all time. Will do anything.

There is a press of lips against his forehead. Crowley swallows down the urge to inform Aziraphale of this revelation. He’s had enough surprises for today, probably. So Crowley pulls back, as much as it pains him to leave that warm embrace. Rubs at his eyes to disguise that fact he may be tearing up a little bit.

“You sure it doesn’t, y’know, bother you?”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful.

“I think it might bother me more later. When I’m less- when I’ve had the chance to process it a bit.”

“That’s fair,” Crowley says, “I know it’s a lot, and weird and fucked up. And I get it if you no longer, if you don’t want to… If it’s too weird.”

Aziraphale shushes him.

“It’s part of who you are, my dear. And you make rather a cute little serpent. I don’t mind at all. It shall take some getting used to, I hope you’ll forgive me that. But- But I don’t think it will be any sort of problem, do you?”

Crowley actually has to wipe away a tear, which is embarrassing. But god. Literal angel, that’s what Aziraphale is. A fucking gift from the universe.

“Aziraphale, I- I don’t think I can ever explain how much- Ngh. Shit. Fuck. Sorry. Emotional vulnerability is not my strength. It means. I-”

He gives up, taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands, and pressing a fervent kiss to his lips, then throws his arms around him, holding him tight. Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, then hugs him back. He is good, Crowley thinks, to hug. Soft in all the right places. (The right places being everywhere) Warm. Smelling faintly of books and tea and some floral soap.

“It’s all right, my dear,” Aziraphale promises, “it’s all right.”

“You know,” he adds when Crowley finally, reluctantly, lets go, “maybe you’ll be able to find the snake in my shop. Talk to it in- in snake? Figure out what it wants and why it’s here.”

“I-”

Crowley hesitates. He knows some of what he’s done is over the line of creepy, is an invasion of privacy, however much he didn’t mean for it to be. It’s so terribly tempting to let Aziraphale keep believing it’s not him, but. Crowley has never been one to resist temptation, but this might have to be an exception. Not only because he owes it to Aziraphale to be honest with him, but also because when he eventually works it out on his own, that will be worse. So he takes a few deep breaths.

“There’s just me, Aziraphale. There’s no other snake.”

“Well earlier this morning, yes, but-”

“No. In your shop, in the park. All me.”

“No, that can’t-” Aziraphale begins, and then frowns.

“But that would mean. When I took the snake home with me-”

“Yep. Me.”

And now, at this, Aziraphale looks betrayed.

“You- Is that how you found me? Is that-”

Crowley nods.

“You being so kind to me? Yeah. Yeah, that’s why.”

“I- I picked you up. And you- And you appeared in my shop!”

“Yeah.”

“Without- Even after you got to know me! You sat- You- Oh.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says again, “I’m sorry. I know it’s- I know it’s weird. And that I’ve lied, and-”

“Look,” Aziraphale says, sounding strained, “I think it’s best you go home now. I need… I need to think about this.”

Crowley wants desperately to argue, to defend himself, but he forces himself to keep quiet. To give Aziraphale time. He deserves it. Deserves to be angry. And upset. And Betrayed. Because he has been, hasn’t he? It’s not right, what Crowley has done. Even if he can’t think of another way.

“Course. Yeah. I understand. And I’m sorry.”

He stands up, wriggles into his too tight jeans, puts on his shirt, gets his mobile off the night stand. Looks forlornly at Aziraphale for a long moment, but he won’t meet his eyes. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Right, then,” he says, “goodbye.”

He hurries out the door, grabbing his jacket and his boots, and heads out. Heads home. He thinks he might spend the rest of the day as a snake. Snakes don’t feel this mixture of heartbreak and guilt, do they? He hopes not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will get more into Aziraphale's point of view for the next one, I promise. And many thank yous to everyone who comments<3<3 Very efficient way to keep me motivated to write.


	21. Consequences

Aziraphale listens to the fading footsteps, the sound of the door carefully being closed. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He takes a deep breath, then another, and then turns over onto his side, grabbing the pillow that Crowley used, and hugging it close. He lets himself wallow for a few minutes before forcing himself to get up.

Make bed. Go to bathroom. Shower. Wash hair. Spend five minutes making sure it will dry properly fluffed up. Clothes. Kitchen. A quiet sob he fails to repress. Kettle on. Bag of pastries that are a bit stale. Tea. A moment of overwhelming frustration. Squeeze of lemon. Table. Despair.

The dry croissant tastes depressing even when dipped in his tea, leaving him with soggy pastry and flakes of crust floating and dissolving in his tea. It is strange, he thinks, that he is so angry at Crowley, yet it is a comforting touch from that- that snake that he craves. A hand on his and an understanding look as he listens. He makes a small angry noise and pushes his disappointing breakfast away. He can’t just sit here feeling miserable all day. No good for anyone. 

He goes down to open up the shop. It isn’t usually open on Sundays, as the sign says ( _Sunday: Unlikely, or 12:15-17:30_ ), but he’ll make an exception today. He has a feeling he won’t be able concentrate properly on a book, so he might as well take out his irritation on unwary customers. That will teach them to try to buy his books. Some part of him realises it’s unreasonable, and that what he should do is sit down, think about what he has learned, and write a stern letter to Crowley explaining the reasons why he is so upset. That, however, doesn’t feel like it will be as immediately satisfying as being angry at only partially deserving customers, though.

The most hurtful thing is how terribly stupid he feels. How easily fooled, how humiliated. Knowing that Crowley has known all this time, and lied, let him believe. Of course he understands that he didn’t feel comfortable telling him the truth about himself right away, that’s fine, and if he met him for the first time as a snake, that’s understandable too, but the fact that he kept seeking him out? All the- all the odd statements that now, with hindsight, Aziraphale realises were in-jokes. 

And the watching? The spying? The information gathering? Spying on Aziraphale until he learned enough to know how to seduce Aziraphale? That’s cheating. Surely that is cheating. It must be, mustn’t it? He feels violated, surveilled, like Crowley doesn’t respect his privacy, never has. Like he has been played a joke on, made a fool of and in the process been tricked into a relationship. But that’s the thing. This is his first relationship he has been in in- well. A higher number of years than he is entirely comfortable admitting even to himself. And it has also, rocky start and current circumstances aside, been the absolutely healthiest and happiest relationship he has been in. At least so he thought. 

He spends half an hour annoyed that no customers appear to be angry at before he realises he has forgotten to flip the sign in the door to open. Still, it is another fifteen minutes until someone actually appears, during which he makes himself another cup of tea and considers having breakfast delivered. Modern times may have many drawbacks, but the ability to have someone bring food to his door is not among them. 

-

Crowley slinks back home, head hung in shame, typing out and almost sending eleven different apology texts. But no. No, Aziraphale just needs time, not Crowley bothering him with his begging for forgiveness. After all, Aziraphale had accepted him for who he is, and he is allowed to be angry at having what should have been firm boundaries broken without his knowledge. But fuck is it frustrating. 

He stops by the shop to get a bottle of shitty but easily drinkable wine, and has a liquid breakfast while laying on his stylishly uncomfortable sofa and watching something horrible on TV. He curls around the empty bottle afterwards in his snake form, but even reducing his capability for heartbreak doesn’t help. So he decides on having arms and legs again, so he can complain to someone.

 **Crowley:** I did something stupid and now az hates me :(

 **Anathema:** Did you deserve it?

 **Crowley:** whats that got to do with anything?

 **Anathema:** So that’s a yes, then?

 **Crowley:** >:(

 **Crowley:** Yes

 **Crowley:** canyou ask the starst if he forgives me??

 **Anathema:** Have you apologised?

 **Crowley:** Profu Pro A lot. Yes.

 **Anathema:** Then just give him time, dumbass.

 **Crowley:** That your words or the stars?

 **Anathema:** Yes.

 **Crowley:** You’re no help :(

Crowley rouses himself from his depressive stupor when his stomach starts to complain that it needs something other than fermented grapes if he intends to be an at all functional human or serpentine being. Rooting through his kitchen cabinets he finds a pack of protein bars that expired only a few months ago. That feels right. Maybe he’ll die. Maybe Aziraphale will find his decaying body on the floor and feel terrible. Admittedly this is unlikely because Aziraphale has never been to his flat, but still. It’s something to dream of.

He feels so absurdly stupid and guilty. And of course he regrets telling Aziraphale, regrets not letting him live in blissful ignorance of how much of a fucking creep he is. But that’s just fitting, isn’t it? That’s what snakes do. They sneak around, they’re creepy things with unblinking eyes and venomous fangs. The embodiment of sin. The first evil in the garden. The- no. The snake part isn’t the issue. Weirdly. It’s the human part of him that’s wrong that absolute angel of a man. The human in him that wanted, so selfishly, to be a part of Aziraphale’s life without his consent or knowledge. God it’s creepy, isn’t it? It’s gross. It’s not what Crowley wants to be, it’s-

-

The next day turns out to be a surprisingly busy one for Aziraphale, with not so much time to wallow between having to explain patiently and with great pleasure to a number of customer that sadly they do not take card, no. And no, he doesn’t know of a place to get cash nearby, no. He will absolutely not hold any books, they do not offer that service. Yes, terribly inconvenient, he knows. Indeed, they can complain, here, have a business card. Crowley had helped him make one, with an email specifically set up for it, which Aziraphale never checks. He doesn’t, in fact, even know the password. But it seemed to bring Crowley great delight, and customers seem far more willing to believe that there is nothing Aziraphale can do about it when they believe him to be an employee, rather than the owner and sole employee of the shop. Oh- no. Not thinking about Crowley any more. 

Just before he thinks he might close for the night, tired enough that he might have a chance of losing himself in a book, the little bell above the door rings. He looks out from behind one of the shelves, and frowns. It’s a young woman, with long dark hair and long dark skirts and the look about her of as woman on a mission. With frightening precision she seems to spot him immediately, making her way past little tables stacked with improbably balancing heaps of books, not managing to knock a single one over. He tries to find a dark and hidden corner, but she manages to follow him.

“Hi,” she says, aggressively brightly.

Ah. An American. Damn. Those are always bad at taking pointed hints about leaving. Unfortunate. She watches him with what seems undue attention.

“Good afternoon, I’m afraid we were just about to close, but feel free to come back at any time,” he tells her with an insincere smile.

“Funny,” she says with an almost smile, “it says on the door you close in half an hour.”

“It does say so,” he agrees, “but also that they are subject to change. The whim of the owner, you know. So sorry. Nothing I can do.”

She looks highly amused and it’s a little off-putting. Some lights glint off her big round glasses with more drama than it has any right to in the dimness of the shop.

“Oh. So you’re not the A. Z. Fell of A. Z. Fell & Co, then?”

“Err. No. Not at all. I’m just a lowly employee.”

“Sure. Okay. Well, either way. Crowley has asked me to apologise on his behalf. He wouldn’t tell me what he did, other than that it was stupid and horrible and that he feels absolutely terrible. Or, well, he didn’t ask me to, exactly, but he has sent me,” she checks her phone, “sixty-seven texts about how sad he is that, and I quote, you hate him now and he is going to throw himself into the Thames, and I am getting tired of it.”

“Oh- You’re- Who are you?”

“Anathema Device, witch.”

“Oh, oh right, of course. Yes. Well, much as I appreciate your, ah, caring for your friend, I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer them for a little while longer. It’s a… complicated situation. And one, I’m afraid, that still needs time to resolve. Now, if there is nothing else-”

“Actually, I was going to ask you about your selection of books of prophecy.”

“Oh, really? Well! I do have quite the collection. If you’ll follow me.”

-

It takes a full week before Crowley hears anything from Aziraphale. He gets some cryptic messages from Anathema, vaguely suggesting that the heavens will smile on him, but nothing more. Not even messages of support. 

Getting back to work helps, letting him focus on annoying his co-workers, writing wildly embellished reports of his accomplishments to send Beez, and on wildly overselling what is, at best, a mediocre product to helplessly charmed customers. It’s fine. He hasn’t typed out novel length text messages to Aziraphale at all. Well. Not more than once. Once and a half. Three times at the very most.

He spends his free time being frequently drunk, or else as serpentine as possible, focusing only on the feeling of heat on his scales, on his snakey little mind’s inability to experience very complex human emotions. Perhaps that is something he can explain to Aziraphale. Say his snake mind is a separate being, almost, with different wants and needs. But that would be mostly a lie. And Aziraphale doesn’t deserve more of those, no matter how much easier that would make it. 

So he is asleep, hanging in a spiral from a perfectly positioned branch, when he hears his phone begin to ping. He drops down to the floor, and slithers over, climbing up on to the sofa where he had left it. Opening a phone without limbs is a challenge, but after a mere five minutes he manages to type in his passcode with the tip of his tail. He has tried, of course, to make the phone recognise his snake face with facial recognition, but unfairly it’s a very anti reptilian piece of technology. He has sent angry emails to Apple, but tragically they have yet to reply.

 **Aziraphale:** Hello, Crowley. I apologise for not reaching out sooner, but as I told you, I have needed some time. What you told me, and I shall not put it I

 **Aziraphale:** Into words in text form, as I imagine it is important to keep that fact from the world, which I of course respect. In fact, I, as I mentioned, have d

 **Aziraphale:** Deep respect for that, and will, of course, never tell anyone about it. But as for, well. Your other action, I have given it a lot of thought, and I am 

**Aziraphale:** Ready, I think, for us to talk about it. If you are amenable, I suggest we met. Somewhere private, I think, would be best. I had thought, perha

 **Aziraphale:** Perhaps at your place? Please let me know if you agree, and when, in that case, would be a good time for you. Sincerely, Aziraphale Z. Fell


	22. Glimmer of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley talk things through, and Aziraphale harshly judges Crowley's approach to interior design from his own complete lack of moral highground on the subject.

Crowley, in preparation for Aziraphale’s visit, cleans his flat obsessively. It’s already clean, already tidy, with the exception of a few take away containers in the kitchen, a bit of spilled dirt where the plants had shivered a bit too vigorously in their terror. The shouting at plants thing was going seemingly well; their leaves were more vibrantly green than ever, and the few that occasionally grew flowers had all for once done their job properly and bloomed colourfully in preparation for Aziraphale. Some despite it being the entirely wrong season. 

They agreed to meet in the evening, and Crowley wraps up his meeting with a client early, so he has a good few hours to stew in his own misery and stress. Which isn’t great for him, because it leaves time to make mistakes. One mistake he makes is a rather complicated cocktail, which he then empties into the sink, having decided that getting drunk is probably a bad idea. He makes himself a quadruple espresso instead. This too turns out to be a mistake, but he doesn’t realise this until 45 minutes later when he can hear his bones vibrating.

“Aziraphale. Angel. Love of my life- Nah. Too much. Aziraphale. Hi. I want to- What do I want? I want you to forgive me for being such a despicable piece of shit, I want you to tell me you love me too. I want you to love me for everything that I am, even if it’s a. Fuck.”

He grimaces at the mirror, then leans down, splashes some cold water on his face. Fusses with his hair some more. It looks frustratingly the same.

“Aziraphale. I want to explain. I- The first time I saw you I thought you might be an actual angel, and nothing you’ve done since has done anything to dissuade me of the notion. In fact, you are an absolutely remarkably kind and understanding person. Now, I’m not saying this to pressure you into forgiving me, although, y’know, should it happen… Well. No. No that sounds bad also. Shit.”

He glares at his reflection.

“Why are you so bad at this?” he demands of himself, “you sell stuff to idiots for a living, why can’t you make your words be good now? When it really matters? Why can’t you be sincere without something sleazy or stupid slipping in?”

It feels weird, talking to himself, feels wrong. He doesn’t like it, and, at least if history is to be believed, the second he sees Aziraphale he’s going to forget everything he has planned to say, anyway. So maybe this is a waste of time. He checks his overly complicated watch. Would another shower help? Giving his plants a shouting to? There is an hour still until Aziraphale is due to be here. No, plant shouting. So he doesn’t risk somehow still being wet when Aziraphale arrives. And honestly he doesn’t think a third shower of the day is going to help him feel better anyway.

-

There is a loud and droning sound when Aziraphale presses the doorbell. It’s a number, rather than a name, and the whole building looks grey and depressing. Nice, in the sense that they clearly have someone to regularly clean up the graffiti and make sure there isn’t too much rubbish on the road out front, but not welcoming. Crowley answers after a few seconds.

“Aziraphale! Hi. Hello. Good- Good to see you. Err. Fifth floor, last door on the right from the lift.”

Aziraphale smiles at what he assumes to be a camera, but his heart isn’t in it. He feels tense. Upset. He has worried enough about what to say and do today that it has manifested in a headache, a feeling of a small mallet repeatedly hitting the inside of his skull just at his right temple.

Inside the building, too, has a sort of sterile but rich feeling. All tasteful shades of cool greys, interrupted occasionally by matte black metal details. The whole inside of the lift is a giant mirror, and Aziraphale is unsettled by seeing himself reflected back at him from every angle. He takes out his pocket watch, sees that it is around five minutes until the time they agreed on, and closes it again, running his hand over the relief of angel wings on the back. 

The door doesn’t have a name on it, not a single identifying feature. It all seems so very purposefully impersonal. Aziraphale hates it. Aziraphale knocks. Aziraphale waits.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley nearly yells as he tears open the door with more enthusiasm than seems, perhaps, necessary.

His face is so filled with hope and worry that it hurts. It mirrors some of what Aziraphale is feeling, only without the simmering resentment, the feeling of betrayal. Still, he forces himself to smile back once more, though it has a little of his customer service smile in it, and Crowley can clearly tell, because his face falls. 

“Err. Come in,” he adds, gesturing grandly into what seems another dully grey rectangle.

Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure what he thought Crowley’s flat would look like, but it’s not quite this. The walls look almost like concrete, or slate, expensively bland. Tall ceilings, long hallways. The feeling is a bit like being in some sort of very pricey cave system made by someone with an aversion to texture. The wardrobe, where Crowley hangs Aziraphale’s coat, blends perfectly with the wall. When he follows Crowley into the living room, accepting the offer of tea, he sees a few more personal touches, but they don’t feel at all like Crowley. A large sofa which seems to be modelled on those dreadful minimalist sculptures of the sixties; all dull colours and geometric shapes. There’s an absolutely massive television mounted to the wall, and a coffee table that is completely empty, without even a speck of dust. A large print of a sketch of the Mona Lisa hangs on the wall, and at least that is _something_. Hardly the most original painting to like, but it is undeniably a masterpiece. In a corner stands a plant, all high and spiked leaves, in a tall square grey pot. It’s leaves are several shades of marbled green, and Aziraphale is fairly sure he recognises it as a snake plant. Well. Again. It is something.

“Preference?” Crowley asks from the kitchen, whose light grey cabinets and surfaces are broken up only by a very large and bright red coffee machine of some sort.

“Oh, whatever you’re having,” Aziraphale replies, fully aware of Crowley’s lack of interest in tea. 

He wanders a little more, coming across the office, which also is incredibly sparse. There is a desk, big and monumental, and an absurd and uncomfortable looking throne like chair, which doesn’t go with the rest of the room at all, excepting perhaps the globe. On the desk is a very large and shiny white computer, and an oddly old fashioned looking telephone, which seems odd. There is a smaller television, barely larger than the computer, mounted to the wall, which seems odd. He sees a single bookshelf, sleek and dark and built into the wall, with a few books and several of what Aziraphale thinks might be very small and soft looking cacti. There are a few books on astronomy, which is unexpected, and the few he has bought from Aziraphale, prominently displayed. That, at least, makes Aziraphale smile.

Next he finds the plant room, which is stunning. A smallish square room, but there are rows and rows of plants of all sorts of sizes. Most are just green, but a few have sprouted beautiful flowers, mostly in shades of white and gold. In the centre, just under the window, there is a heat lamp, and a few large flat rocks, angled presumably to catch the light from the large window, and a few artfully arranged branches. His snake set up, Aziraphale realises.

“Like them?” Crowley asks from right behind him, and Aziraphale jumps, if only a little.

“Sorry,” he adds, with a sheepish smile, and hands Aziraphale a mug.

The handle is shaped, perhaps not surprisingly, like a snake. It makes Aziraphale struggle to hide a smile. Crowley seems to see it, and grins.

“Got to be on brand,” he explains.

“Of course,” Aziraphale agrees, though he has only the vaguest sense of what that means.

“These really are stunning,” he adds, gesturing at the plants surrounding them.

“They are starting to improve a bit,” Crowley allows, though he is plainly glowing with pride.

They settle in the living room, where Aziraphale spends several minutes attempting to find a comfortable sitting position before he is forced to come to terms with the fact that is is probably impossible. He sips his tea, something spiced and citrusy that is actually quite delicious, and not at all what he would imagine Crowley would prefer.

“So,” Crowley says, having curled up on the sofa into a position so uncomfortable looking that Aziraphale can only assume his spine retains some of its snake-like flexibility even when he is shaped like a human, “you’ve err. You’ve had some time to think?”

“I have,” he agrees.

Crowley looks at him with large golden eyes, eyebrows and forehead knitted into a deeply worried frown, his hand nearly obsessively tracing the ceramic scales on the handle of his own mug, his leg gently shaking. 

“And?” 

“And I am upset with you. You- You did a lot of things have made me feel… Feel betrayed. And tricked, and made a fool of.”

“That was never my intention,” Crowley assures him.

“Be that as it may, those are still the things I feel,” Aziraphale continues, and sees Crowley start to apologise, so he barrels on, not ready to be interrupted with explanations and apologies before he can get out all the reasons he is upset, the mental list he has gone over at least fifty times in the last week, “you let me take you into my home, let me talk to you- _pet_ you, it’s- It’s weird. You let me interact with you as though you were any other animal, who couldn’t understand the things I told you. You took advantage of me to- I’m not even sure what, but it feels… It feels horrible. Like you tricked me.”

“I- I talked to you about you. Both- both of you. I-” he falters, unsure, sipping his tea to cover his insecurity.

Crowley looks like he would rather be anywhere but here, having his actions thrown in his face. Good. He needs to feel it. Needs to realise that he can’t simply manipulate people in the manner he has Aziraphale. Aziraphale wants to forgive Crowley, he does. He misses him. Misses soft kisses and touches, misses their long talks, misses not being alone. So he steels himself, trying to put up the sort of hard and cold shell Crowley seems to try so hard for.

“You broke into my shop,” he accuses.

“Did not!” Crowley protests.

“You did! I found you inside my shop after I had been out!”

Crowley makes a face.

“Technically I got in the shop earlier, while it was open, and you simply failed to check your shelves for reptiles before going out for lunch. Perfectly innocent thing to do. Also I may have fallen asleep.”

Aziraphale huffs, crossing his arms again.

“That’s not that much less bad,” he insists.

Crowley begins to protest again, but then stops. Sighs.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a while, Crowley staring into his cooling tea as if looking for answers, and Aziraphale continuing to look around the show home of a flat Crowley lives in. It doesn’t, with the possible exception of the plant room, feel like him. It feels like the person Crowley wants so badly to be.

“I just really like you,” Crowley begins, still looking down, his hair hanging down, obscuring his face.

“You were so kind to me, when I was just a strange snake. You seemed so lovely and fascinating and just- just really weird. Which I mean in the best way. And then I tried to talk to you as myself, when I could. Took me a while, you know. Couldn’t, obviously, figure out who you were until you took me home with you. Which yeah, that was weird, I agree, but I didn’t- I wasn’t expecting you to do that, and I was just… I wanted to see what you would do, you know? And I wanted to see where this shop of yours was so I could talk to you in person.”

Aziraphale frowns. It makes some sense, but still.

“Why wouldn’t you just, I don’t know, try to run into me in that park? You had found me twice, you could have simply tried again.”

Crowley crumples even tighter in on himself, as if trying to curl up as small as possible, but having a few too many limbs to manage to his satisfaction. Aziraphale wants to comfort him, despite himself, but holds back. It’s not that he wants Crowley to feel bad, exactly, although certainly there is something of that. It’s that he is trying to respect himself. To not let his affection for Crowley make him forgive things he shouldn’t too easily. If he lets this go now, then who is to say Crowley won’t take advantage later? No, if this relationship is to work he needs to be strict with him. To let him know that Aziraphale won’t let himself be treated badly. That despite what he tells himself late at night sometimes, he deserves better. Deserves to be treated with kindness and respect and honesty. And if they can’t talk about this sensibly, well, then there is likely no future for them. And Aziraphale quite desperately wants for there to be.

“I could,” Crowley agrees, “I should have. Only it happened before I could- no. That’s an excuse. I was… Scared, a bit, I think, that you wouldn’t like me. Would brush me off. Reject me before I had the chance. So I thought. If I show up as a customer, then you have to talk to me. Which, in hindsight, I realise is incredibly creepy, I do. It’s the kind of thing that you can sort of rationalise to yourself, but now, saying it out loud… It’s the kind of shit horrible creepy straight guys do, isn’t it. It’s- fuck. I’m so sorry, Aziraphale. So sorry for that. And for taking advantage of you. For listening to you and watching you to figure out how to get you to like me. And… And those two times, they should have been the first and last, yeah, I realise that. I do. Well, now I do, but then… You seemed to really hate me as a human. But you liked snake me.”

He shrugs helplessly. Aziraphale swallows, straightens in an effort to make his back and this sofa be better friends. It doesn’t work. It’s like a church, making you hyper aware, making you uncomfortable enough to be alert at all times. He wonders if Crowley genuinely likes it, or bought it simply because he thinks it’s the sort of thing the person he is trying to be should have.

“Yes. I did. It’s a lot easier to like someone who can’t judge you. Quicker. And I- I understand, I think, why you did what you did. But that doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know,” Crowley hurries to agree, “I do, absolutely. I don’t mean to say that creepily snaky stalking you should be a compliment, absolutely. I’m just… Just giving you context, I suppose. So you know. And if… If you never want to see me again, I-”

His voice breaks on the last word, and he takes several deep breaths before continuing.

“Then I understand that, and I’ll respect it, I promise. I know this is a strange situation, literally nothing that could happen with anyone else. And it’s a lot to deal with, and if you don’t want to, I don’t blame you in the slightest.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, frowning, “I want very much to emphasise the snake thing is not what is the issue here. I know that’s nothing you had any choice in, and I do, as we’ve covered, like snake you. Your actions are the problem, not your nature.”

“I know,” Crowley agrees, then groans, “I know, I’m sorry. It’s. I know I have to accept that, but I’m just. Used to blaming that part of me, I suppose. Takes the blame off myself. Which is bad. I agree. It’s bad. I’m sorry. I’m- no-. Nope. Gonna stop making excuses for myself.”

“Good,” Aziraphale tells him, and sets his empty mug down on the table, which is an impractically long distance from the sofa, for, he supposes, interior design reasons.

“Look,” he continues, and puts his hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

They both jump a little at the contact, the first since Crowley had told him. But Aziraphale keeps his hand there. Wanting to underline his point.

“I like you. I don’t like some of the things you did, but I like you, and I do believe that you didn’t mean for it to have that effect. I- I want us to… keep seeing each other, I suppose. I want to forgive you, but it’s not like pressing a button. It is going to take some time.”

Crowley turns his whole body towards him, lighting up, eyes wide with hope, shining and bright. 

“Yeah?”

“I am not going to promise anything, and we can’t go right back to where we were. But I do miss you, Crowley. And you are, despite everything, the best thing to have happened to me in years. Which does say more than I would like about my love life, frankly.”

Crowley is grinning like an idiot, nodding along, and it takes a significant amount of effort not to pull him into a hug. 

“I will do my absolute best to earn your forgiveness, I promise. I’ll- I’ll never lie to you about anything. Uh. Learn to like tea. Buy you more pastries. Learn to make you crêpes, buy you books- No. Those are just material things. But… But you know. I’ll try. Communicate clearly. Respect your boundaries. Do anything you want me to.”

“I… appreciate it. Again, it’s something I can rush, no promises I can make. But I want to make this work, my dear.”

-

As he walks home, having made a date to have dinner together in a week, having made Crowley promise to let him know before showing up at the bookshop, it starts to snow. The flakes melt as soon as they touch the pavement, but it’s still lovely to see them dance in the warm light of the street lamps. It’s close to the middle of December, and perhaps it is the season to forgive.


	23. Snuestions (Snake Questions)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley start to work towards getting back to where they were, only with more reptile content.

They meet at an Italian place, an old favourite of Aziraphale’s. He has worked out, by no, that Crowley doesn’t actually seem to care very much what he eats. Which Aziraphale pities. It seem a sad aspect of life to almost miss out on. To not get to experience. Or he does, he supposes, experience them. To not be able to appreciate, then. 

There are a lot of things they don’t have in common, Aziraphale has found. Entirely separate areas of interest. Their styles and colour palettes. Their species, some of the time. It shouldn’t make sense. But of course, at the same time, it is not as if they are only aesthetically or sexually attracted to each other. That, indeed, took a while before Aziraphale even noticed. No, but something in their personalities, despite the many differences, go so well with each other. Perhaps it’s like a puzzle piece, yin and yang, their differences matching up perfectly so that they can form a sort of whole together. He has never given much credit to the idea that opposites attract, but perhaps the opposites are more superficial than they seem. Some emotional connection. Something deeper that is the same, or similar enough that they work together.

“Pizza?” he demands, as Crowley crosses his arms defensively, “there is so much to Italian cuisine, and pizza?”

“What? Pizza’s good. Everyone agrees, I’m pretty sure. Good with wine. Can put anything on it. Like pasta, but flat and more easily portable.”

Aziraphale sighs, but the disappointment in his face is decidedly fond. Crowley knows it, it’s plain on his face as he lifts a hand up to waggle his sunglasses and grins.

“Pizza is rather good,” Aziraphale admits, and picks a dish he only partially understands the Italian description of and horribly mispronounces to the waitress’ and Crowley’s amusement.

It’s exquisite, and the subtle mystery of it makes him feel good. Like he’s discovering something, even if the food probably not all that exciting in reality. There is wild boar in it, though, and anything wild is fancy by default, he explains to Crowley. 

“Like Asterix and Obelix. They eat boar, right?”

Aziraphale sighs, and finishes his glass of wine and Crowley looks terribly satisfied with himself.   
It’s nice, tonight. A nice date. Being in public means they can’t talk about anything supernatural, and it feels almost like before. Almost after Crowley had quite seriously upset Aziraphale’s grasp on the laws of nature. He has managed not to think about it so much, has focused on his anger with Crowley, he has now realised. Because that’s something he can deal with. That’s within the realm of possibility. Crowley sneaking around, Crowley watching him, taking advantage. That’s the sort of thing regular humans do too, even if the methods differ. But now? Now that Aziraphale has calmed down a little, now that they’ve talked and seem to be on roughly the same page? Now that’s something he has to think about. He hasn’t had so very much time to do so. It’s nearing Christmas, and even a shop like his is victim to the terror of holiday shoppers, wanting a fancier or more expensive book to gift. But they do need to talk about that, too.

“I’m- I’m so glad we can do this,” Crowley says, after they’ve finished a bottle of wine together, and are waiting for the dessert Aziraphale has talked him into with the promise of espresso being a significant element.

He reaches across the table and lays his hand over Aziraphale’s. It’s warm, soft. Hands that never do much more than tap at keyboards and screens, whose gardening is relaxed enough not to show. He’s painted his nails black, and there are only a few cracks where pale keratin shows through. Aziraphale turns his hand, their fingers intertwining.

“I am too,” he tells Crowley, eyes still on their hands. 

Those too are different. Crowley’s fingers are long and slim and elegant, his own softer and stubbier. Like all of them. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s that they bring different strengths. Each having characteristics and skills the other doesn’t. Complimentary. Like colours. Very different, yet yielding a pleasing result.

It isn’t that he isn’t having a good time, isn’t enjoying acting like everything is fine, but he can’t do it with the same bright and untarnished joy that Crowley does. He can’t help but have doubts tugging at the corners of his thoughts. What if Crowley has some sort of ulterior motive? He cannot for the life of him work out what sort of ulterior motive that might be, but reality isn’t dictated by the limits of his imagination. And even so. Even if there is nothing, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t manipulative. And someone who will do that might not stop. Might not realise that’s what they’re doing, but the damage done is the same.

“You all right?” Crowley asks, but Aziraphale is spared the challenge of replying by the arrival of their desserts.

Crowley nibbles at his for a bit, declares it good, but still pushes the last half over to Aziraphale’s side of the table. And, well, who is Aziraphale to argue with 50% more dessert?

-

“Will you come in for a bit?” Aziraphale asks when they are nearing the shop.

“I have some things I would like to ask you about that, ah, can’t be spoken of in public,” he adds, lest Crowley get any too optimistic ideas.

“Always,” Crowley replies with a soft smile, a squeeze of his hand around Aziraphale’s.

The air is quite cold now, and Crowley is tugging at his collar, having decided, evidently, that functional scarves are for the weak. Aziraphale had asked him whether he wouldn’t prefer a winter coat, what with his being partly cold blooded and all, but apparently those too are for people less cool than him. Yes, Aziraphale had agreed, you would be less cool with a coat. That’s the point, isn’t it? Staying warm? And Crowley had laughed and kissed his cheek and it had been equally sweet and confusing.

They go to the backroom of the shop, and Aziraphale catches Crowley glancing up at the upper floor, clearly noting that Aziraphale isn’t inviting him into his home proper yet. Which is entirely deliberate, and something Aziraphale had intended Crowley to realise, but still seeing the well concealed disappointment makes him feel a stab of guilt. He distracts himself by making them some tea. Enough wine, he thinks, at least for now. He would like for Crowley’s answers to be coherent. 

“So. Snake questions, I assume?” Crowley asks from where he has perched himself on the edge of the armrest of the sofa. 

He has some odd aversion to sitting like a normal human being. Probably also a snake thing.

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms, “they are. I hope you’ll forgive me, I don’t mean to make you feel like a curiosity, but I am rather… Intrigued.”

“Course. Only natural. Can’t promise I can answer them all, though. I’ve very deliberately avoided any scientific knowledge of myself. I’ve seen enough sci-fi films to know that doesn’t end well.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale agrees, “just black, yes?”

Crowley nods and accepts his tea with a murmured thank you. Aziraphale will sell him on the stuff yet, if forcibly. To his own he adds a tiny splash of milk, a single drop of honey.

“What… is it like?” Aziraphale asks, sitting down on the sofa like a regular person without a snake adjacent skeleton and a back which sometimes doesn’t agree with his life choices.

“Being a snake, you mean?”

He nods.

“It’s… different. Sorry, that’s not very helpful, but it feels as natural as being human does to me. It’s easier, a bit. Emotionally. Like the snake brain doesn’t care so much about human problems. It’s easier not to think, to just be. And, I suppose, yeah, bit poorer judgement in that shape, but it’s not like it’s not me, you know. Just me but a bit to the left. A bit less attached to what is happening. Content to spend hours soaking in the heat of the sun or a nice quality heat lamp for hours. It’s like. Snake brain can’t be anxious. Panicked and scared, yes, but of concrete dangers, not you know. Worried about whether or not the gorgeous angel of a man is too angry with me to forgive me. Not as much as the human brain, anyway.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, a little overwhelmed, and sips his tea, scalding his tongue.

“I quite envy you that, I think. I suppose getting lost in a book is a little the same, but being able to stop yourself from worrying physically, that… sounds nice, actually.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, his expression not quite readable.

“Suppose it is,” he agrees.

“Do you like it?”

“What, being a snake?”

Aziraphale nods encouragingly. Crowley sways back and forth a bit where he sits, either because of his snakey nature or the three or four glasses of wine he’s had.

“Yeah. I mean, there are bits of it that are inconvenient. Like having to hide. Like people always asking me whether my eyes are contacts. And they would never be, I hate contacts. But that’s minor. The big big deal is the lying, I think. Having to hide it, not being able to talk to anyone about it. I once tried online roleplaying with the sort of people who like to pretend they’re werewolves, just to have someone to talk to about it, even if the species is wrong, even if they were weirdly into having sex with werewolves.”

Aziraphale is both confused and alarmed by this last part.

“Just in fantasies, Aziraphale. Werewolves aren’t real. I’m pretty sure. I’ve not met any, anyway. No monster support groups here in town.”

“You’re not-” Aziraphale begins, but Crowley cuts him off.

“I know, I know. Only joking. I don’t think I’m a monster. Very weird. But not a monster. Promise. But even this, you asking me questions, it’s… It’s the most I’ve ever been able to talk about it, you know. And it means a lot to me. Part of why I am so incredibly grateful for you- your acceptance. Not thinking you’re going crazy.”

He shifts down so he’s sitting on the comfortable part of the sofa, kicking off his boots and curling his legs under himself, leaning against the back with his shoulder so he’s facing Aziraphale. The mug of tea is cradled in his hands, like this shape too needs external heat sources.

“I’m glad to be able to be that for you,” Aziraphale tells him, “someone in whom you can confide about these things. It must be frightfully isolating, being all alone like that.”

Crowley shrugs.

“Don’t have anything to compare it too. Though I suppose there might be others out there, equally good at keeping it a secret. But I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

“Do you.. I mean. This sounds awfully crude, I suppose, but does your snake self function like a real snake? Or, a normal snake, I mean. Do your scales fall off, do you eat mice, or go into hibernation?”

Crowley sighs.

“I wish I could hibernate. Would be great. Just sleep for a few months and forget about everything? Ideal. But I don’t think my job would appreciate it. And also I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried. Be happy to sleep through winter. Well. Not this one, maybe.”

He smiles at Aziraphale, soft and lovely, and oh, that is a beautiful smile to be the recipient of.

“But as for the other stuff? I actually don’t really know. I think the maximum time I’ve spent as a snake without changing back is a few days. Gets a little boring after a while. And it’s really hard to use the internet without limbs. So I don’t, I mean. Maybe? If I stayed a snake for long enough, that stuff would happen. And I did eat a mouse once. And then, when I turned back into a human, I threw the entire thing up. And believe me, throwing up a whole mouse with your human throat is a very good way to make sure you never eat one again. Human stomachs aren’t meant to digest entire rodents.”

He grimaces at the memory, shuddering.

“Would not recommend.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Aziraphale says, gulping down some more tea and trying and failing not to imagine what that would be like.

“Did you use to be a smaller snake?”

“Nah. Think I was always this size. Although I can’t be entirely sure. First time was when I was a little kid, memories aren’t all that sharp and clear. But yeah. Tiny little thing, me. Which was awkward when I had Crawly.”

“Crawly?”

Crowley smiles, almost wistful.

“Yup. My snake. Told you I had one, yeah?”

“You did,” Aziraphale agrees, “but I had thought that was a lie too.”

Crowley looks down, and Aziraphale feels another gnawing sting of guilt.

“Well. Suppose it partially was. She died ten years ago, poor girl. Beautiful thing she was. All pale golds and whites. Bit like your colour scheme, come to think of it. You would’ve matched. But yeah, she was like three or four times bigger than me. And she really didn’t like my snake shape for whatever reason. Didn’t understand, I think, that it was still me. I’d wanted to see, right, whether I could actually communicate with snakes. But it turns out they’re not really communicative. Also we were different species, which probably didn’t help. But she preferred me when I was warm and had limbs she could climb on. Which shouldn’t have be surprising. Not known for being social animals. Still.”

Aziraphale watches him for a moment.

“You named your pet snake after yourself?” 

Crowley blinks.

“Huh. Hadn’t thought about it that way. But thinking back, the vet did think her full name being Crawly Crowley was very amusing.”

Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley looks mock insulted before a grin wins out.

“Wasn’t it weird for you, having a snake as a pet and being one yourself?”

Crowley shrugs.

“Less weird than those people who raise chimpanzees like people, teaching them sign language and shit.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale agrees.

Crowley rolls his shoulder, shifts into another spine bending position. Sees Aziraphale’s look and smiles.

“Yeah. Can’t sit normal. Or it feels weird, anyway. Sorry. Snake posture.”

“I assumed. Would you like another cup?”

“No thanks,” Crowley says, putting his down on a side table.

“You got any more burning snake questions?”

“Probably,” Aziraphale says, “but I can think of them right now. Only…”

“Yesss?” Crowley asks, turning his s into a hiss, and looking very pleased with himself.

“Would you show me, again? I know I’ve seen your snake form plenty, but not so much while knowing it was you.”

“You can just ask me to take my clothes off, you know,” Crowley tells him, grinning smugly when Aziraphale blushes.

“Joking. Right. Of course,” he says, and in the blink of an eye he has disappeared, leaving behind a pile of black clothes, from within which there are faint movements.

He wriggles out from the neck of his shirt, curling into a little pile, head and neck raised up, little forked tongue flicking out. Aziraphale reaches a hand down, and the snake- and Crowley winds himself around it, letting himself be lifted up and examined in the warm light.

“You’re a very pretty snake, you know,” Aziraphale tells him, and lets out a startled laugh when Crowley nods. 

It’s such an oddly human movement to see in an animal. He carefully pets the smooth scales on Crowley’s back and then catches himself, freezes.

“Sorry. Is this all right? I never thought about it, never given much thought to the bodily autonomy of animals. Which, that’s weird, isn’t it? That we take for granted that animals will want to be touched, that we expect them to tolerate it. Is it all right? Me touching you?”

Crowley nods again.

“Not too weirdly intimate?”

Crowley shakes his head, then leans his head into Aziraphale’s hand.

“Oh, oh Crowley. You are truly incredibly cute like this, you know.”

Crowley hisses, but it’s half hearted.

“Apologies, my dear. Very uh. Scary looking? Cool?”

Crowley nods his little serpentine head, and Aziraphale ruins it a bit by pressing a very soft kiss to the top of his tiny head.

“You must tell me, my dear, whether I start accidentally talking to you as if you were an animal. It’s different, when you can’t reply. Other than yes or no, I suppose. That’s useful.”

Again Crowley nods, and then he begins to wind himself up Aziraphale’s arm, over his shoulder, and around his neck. For a moment Aziraphale feels a hint of instinctual panic, his heart staring to race. Humans are evolutionarily optimised to fear snakes, especially when they have their little fangs so near his throat, their bodies wound around his neck. But Crowley only nudges at his bow-tie until Aziraphale gets the idea, loosening and removing it, opening the uppermost button of his shirt so Crowley can rest his head in the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. Where it’s warm and safe.

“Oh, you’re going to stay there, are you?” Aziraphale asks, amused, and Crowley nods. 

“I’d best get a book, then.”


	24. New Year New Snakes

They don’t, of course, spend Christmas together. Aziraphale has a family thing, and Crowley has a solo movie marathon and drinking holiday themed cocktails alone thing. He has been invited by Anathema to come spend Christmas eve with her and Newt, as he has been for the last two years. He declines, as he also has for the past two years. It would be weird, probably, he thinks, and too many hours of Newt’s enthusiastic and bright anxiety gets tiring. Or, actually, this is not true. He is invited to spend _Yule_ with them, which as far as he can gather has a lot in common with Christmas, only instead of angels there are ornaments of little broomstick riding witches on the tree, and the little rug under has complicated sigils. He gives them a bottle of fancy wine and a pack of the ugliest tarot cards he can find.

He does receive a package in the post on the 23rd, neatly wrapped and with a beautiful calligraphied note. It’s a very soft woollen scarf, red with a dark grey pattern that almost looks like scales. Crowley loves it with all his heart. He keeps the note, tucking it in his night stand. It’s not weird. People used to keep parts of their loved ones’ bodies in necklaces. Sure, hair grows back, but it’s still a cut off part of their body. Weird. This is definitely comparatively normal.

Aziraphale, similarly, finds an envelope on a cold late December morning, on which is written his name in the handwriting of someone who has not used an actual pen to write since the advent of the word processor, flanked by doodled wings. Inside are two tickets to a performance of Peer Gynt (not, fortunately, the original ten hour version, that would be too much even for him), along with a hastily scrawled note, clearly a frantic after thought, explaining that he was in no way obligated to bring Crowley, in fact better not. It’s not signed at all, but the back of the note has a doodle of a snake, so Aziraphale is reasonably sure it’s from Crowley.

They do, however, spend New Years together, drinking expensive champagne and eating some very fancy food that Crowley isn’t entirely sure Aziraphale made all on his own. No need to mention that, though. 

“Look,” Crowley says, leaning in close, boundaries like personal space made vague by alcohol and comfort, “do you bleach your hair? I mean, rude to ask, maybe, but I just. Do you?”

“What?” asks Aziraphale, a hand touching his curls almost self consciously, “no. Why would I? It’s already quite pale enough, I think. I’m not sure bleach would even do anything.”

“Hmm. It is pretty,” Crowley says, as if though agreeing.

“In fact I used to dye it darker for a time. Dark brown,” Aziraphale continues.

Crowley squints at him, trying to picture it, but finds himself unable to.

“Can’t imagine it,” he concludes.

“No? I do believe there are pictures somewhere. Rather unfortunate ones, I’m afraid.”

“There are?” Crowley asks, sitting up a bit straighter, “can I see?”

Aziraphale looks a bit uncomfortable, but Crowley presses on.

“Please? Bet you were cute.”

“I- all right, I’ll have a look.”

Aziraphale disappears for a while, and Crowley can hear faint sounds of rummaging and muttering. He gets out his phone, and scrolls through instagram for a while, but it’s all just people taking photos of fire works or their new years parties, and neither plantstagram nor any sninfluencers (snake influencers) have any good new content. Disappointing. He doesn’t, usually, like holidays. It’s not that he himself minds not celebrating them, but the pressure to have a good time, to be doing _Something_ still manages to make him feel vaguely guilty. Although, if he gets the chance to spend them with Aziraphale he thinks he might genuinely start to see the point.

Aziraphale reappears around ten minutes later, slightly dusty and clutching a yellowed envelope, which is marked as MCMXC-MCMXCVI, because of course it is. He extracts a pile of slightly grainy photographs, flicking through them too fast for Crowley’s inebriated eyes to follow, until he pulls one from the pile. It shows a young Aziraphale, probably somewhere in his mid twenties, with dark curly hair hanging down almost to his shoulders in some parts, a faint white spot by his ear which might be an ear ring. He wears a beige sweater and grey trousers, and smiles uncomfortably at the camera. There’s another man, who looks to be about the same age, taller and broader and with a face so stereotypically handsome it’s almost cartoonish. He has his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Oh, see? Told you you’d be cute. I like that look. Not as much as your current look, maybe, but the longer hair suits you!”

“Oh, well, I- err. Thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs.

“Who’s the guy?” Crowley asks, “an ex?”

“Oh goodness, no. No, that’s Gabriel. My, err, brother, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Well, we were raised together, but technically he is my cousin. My aunt and uncle took me in after my parents died.”

Crowley frowns.

“Hang on. Didn’t you say your parents died twenty years ago?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, my biological parents died when I was six, so, well, I came to think of my aunt and uncle as my parents. I barely remember my mother and father any more.”

“Oh, that sounds rough. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale waves him off, “it has been a long time.”

“You see them much still?”

Aziraphale sighs, slipping the picture back in the envelope and putting it down on the table.

“More than I like, sometimes. I do appreciate them, but they are all so terribly… Well. I know they mean well, but they do make me feel like the failed one, in the family. The one who hasn’t made it.”

“What? That’s nonsense! You own your own shop, get to spend all day surrounded by the thing you love, even if sometimes there are customers. Sounds like you’re doing excellent to me. Also. You have a very handsome mostly human boyfriend.”

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Aziraphale laughs.

“I do,” he agrees, “I do. It’s simply that. Well. I saw them, on Christmas, and their presents, they are always so… I got _another_ year membership for a gym. And a book about business practices for beginners. It’s just… It feels like I’m failing to live up to expectations, even now, even decades after our parents passed.”

“That’s pretty shitty of them,” Crowley says, silently vowing to find these people and make them regret every bad thing they’ve ever made Aziraphale feel.

“They mean well, I think,” Aziraphale repeats.

“No, look, we just had a talk about this. Doesn’t matter if they mean well if the result is you not feeling good about yourself. I mean, I know these people are family, aren’t just- well. Anyway. But still. You deserve to not have people make you feel bad about yourself. To have them recognise how great you are. And if they can’t see that, they’re blind.”

“I- well. Thank you, my dear. I appreciate the sentiment.”

Crowley holds one of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his, looking into his eyes and trying to communicate with every fibre of his being that Aziraphale is the best thing to happen to anyone he has ever happened to. Outside there is the distant and scattered noises of fireworks. It’s not midnight for another hour, but that isn’t stopping anyone. There is a thin layer of snow on the ground outside, but it is not enough to muffle sound.

“Do you have any contact with your family?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley thinks it’s meant kindly, so he shrugs.

“Not really. No one alive I’d want to be in contact with.”

“Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry-”

“’S fine. No one I miss.”

Aziraphale pulls him into a hug, then, and Crowley lets himself melt into it, burying his face against Aziraphale’s neck, wrapping his arms around him as tight as if he means to constrict him. It is incredibly comforting, warm arms around him, the softness of Aziraphale making him feel safe. The scent of him like home, even if it’s less strong now than when he is snake shaped. He knows it’s too early to tell Aziraphale that he loves him, but still he tries to communicate the sentiment. Through touch. Telepathically. Tapping out the words in Morse code against his back. (He had learned the phrase recently, for the specific purpose of being able to tell Aziraphale while he was in snake form.)

They drift off on the sofa for a bit, full of champagne and food, leaning against each other, and only waking at midnight, when the fireworks start in earnest. They make their way to the window, watching through bleary eyes as the winter night is lit up with all the colours of the rainbow.

“Any resolutions?” Aziraphale asks, leaning against Crowley and watching a particularly pretty explosion of gold and red slowly fade from the sky.

“Don’t like resolutions. No good at them. But, uh, get better at proper and honest communication. And learn how to make crêpes.”

“I didn’t know you liked them that much?”

“No. But you do.”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s cheek softly.

“What about you?”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful for a moment. Outside it has started snowing again. The flakes, as they fall, lit up for moments at a time in bright colours.

“To stand up for myself more, I think. And learn more about snakes.”

Crowley grins.

“I can help out with at least one of those.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _think_ Peer Gynt in its full length has a run time of about ten hours, but I couldn't confirm that online, so if that's obviously wrong then one of my Norwegian teachers must have lied to me. Direct any complaints to them. Anyway. Wish I could have seen Michael Sheen in that. I mean, arguably I could have, lived in the right place and right time, but I was like three years old at that point I think, and had yet to develop the patience for very long dramatic poems.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The writer shamelessly projects their contradictory thoughts on gender onto our two heroes, and the Them make a brief appearance.

**Crowley:** All right if I drop by?

 **Aziraphale:** Of course, my dear, I shall look forward to seeing you! Love, Aziraphale.

Crowley has kept doing that, kept asking. Or, by this point perhaps, announcing his presence. Because it’s not like Aziraphale has ever said no, unless he actually wasn’t at the shop. Which happens more and more these days, but usually then it is Crowley with whom he is. It’s nice.

It has been nearly two and a half months, now, since Crowley’s serpentine revelation, and things are starting to get back to where they once were. Crowley has stayed the night once, now, and it was fine. It was good. He stayed human. He stayed where he was, and yet, Aziraphale found that his sleep was uneasy, restless. Crowley doesn’t know. The man has apologised enough, has done so much to reassure Aziraphale that he is doing better, being better, trying to deserve his trust. And Aziraphale believes him, he does, and he appreciates it so very much. So he isn’t sure why he can’t find it in himself to be fine.

Crowley has done nothing but be the perfect gentleman ever since. Almost so much it’s weird, in fact, but lately, luckily, the fond bickering, the amusement and the sarcasm is sneaking its way back. Which is good. Aziraphale doesn’t want him to pretend. They haven’t really talked about it, about exactly this, because Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. He just needs a little more time, he tells himself.

The snake thing has gotten… easier. Aziraphale thinks he can sort of accept it now. Or, well. He has accepted it as part of Crowley since the start, and accepted it as part of reality, because he saw it happen right in front of his face, and so it has to be real, doesn’t it? But accepting what that means about reality, however flippantly he had assured Crowley that it was no great matter to him, that has taken time. Because that, what Crowley can do, that’s- well. That’s magic. And not the kind Aziraphale tried to teach himself out of a book as a teenager. No. Proper magic, inexplicable and yet firmly real. A complete transfiguration of one body into another in a moment. And if that is possible, what else is?

The bell above the door rings cheerily, and Crowley stalks in, a tall thin black shape, followed by gusts of icy wind. It is early February, and the weather wants badly, for some reason, to get into the bookshop. To make it cold and wet and altogether inhospitable to both books and serpents. Aziraphale watches Crowley out of the corner of his eye, sees him wearing the scarf he got him, wound around his neck so many times it looks like he can’t move his neck. Crowley shakes his coat, melty droplets of London’s poor attempt at snow splattering on the floor. He is careful, thankfully, not to hit the books.

“Angel, hi,” Crowley says, kissing Aziraphale’s cheek and setting two steaming take away mugs down on the desk where Aziraphale is working, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“You feel dreadfully cold, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him with a smile, placing his own hands over Crowley’s frozen ones.

He’s not, evidently, the sort of person who wears gloves either. Or a proper winter jacket. But at least the scarf helps. Perhaps, eventually, Aziraphale can gift him an entire winter wardrobe he will be forced to wear out of gratitude. A devious plan he must remember.

“Mm,” Crowley agrees, pressing his cold skin into Aziraphale’s warmth, “’m cold blooded you know. Got to find and external heat source. And you make a very good one. And so, hopefully, does the cocoa I brought you. Here. Made with some fancy Belgian or Dutch chocolate, I think. Café person promised me it was good.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says, turning in Crowley’s arms to look at him.

“Oh! That’s a new look.”

And Crowley pulls back a little, seeming suddenly a little defensive. He is wearing a rather severe looking black lipstick, which shouldn’t work on him, but somehow does. Matches, perhaps, his glasses.

“You mind?”

“Mind, dear? No, why would I? Merely surprised is all. It suits you.”

“Yeah?”

“It does,” Aziraphale says, more forcefully, tilting his head up just the last inch or so needed to press his lips to Crowley’s cold and black ones.

“You look very beautiful. Or handsome. Both. Whichever is your preference.”

Crowley laughs at him, soft and gentle and happy. He wipes his thumb over Aziraphale’s lower lip.

“Sorry. Not as stain proof as I was promised.”

He leans against the desk, picking up his own drink, some dreadful coffee concoction, and looks around the shop.

“Not many customers?”

“Blessedly few. There is a small group of students hiding somewhere and taking pictures of the pages of one of my books on history on their mobile telephones, but it has been quiet otherwise.”

He tries the cocoa. It _is_ very good.

“That’s nice.”

“It’s, uh. Both. And either. Just, by the way.”

Crowley is looking firmly past Aziraphale, out the window, cardboard cup in his hands. His nails are still black, but now with swirly gold details that look like they must be terribly complicated to draw on.

“I’m sorry?”

“Y’know. Gendered terms, a bit, aren’t they. Which. I might sort of want to talk to you about. Gender. Things. Not to weird you out further, or anything.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and puts a hand on Crowley’s arm. Lowers his voice, just in case, though there are no customers in sight.

“You’ve already told me that you’re occasionally not even a mammal, my dear, do you really think anything you can say about gender can be weirder?”

Crowley laughs, but it’s a high and nervous sort of laugh.

“S’pose, yeah. Fair. But still. Not because it changes anything, but I thought… Thought you ought to know.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale encourages, tucking his free arm in under Crowley’s elbow and gently guiding him to where two ancient armchairs flank a small table laden with Wildes.

“Thing is. I’ve never quite been able to pick. I mean. Know they give you one when you’re little, not talking about that but I… You know how you feel like a man? Like intrinsically? I do that. Sometimes. And other times, I feel like a woman. And sometimes both. Not a switch but a sort of spectrum on which I am perpetually moving back and forth, never quite settling anywhere.”

Aziraphale nods.

“That makes sense. You can’t pick a species to be, it’s no wonder you can’t choose a gender.”

Crowley looks at him, eyes hidden by black glasses and entirely unreadable. Aziraphale wishes he would take them off more often, even in public.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to make light, my dear. Although I am not certain what you mean about intrinsically feeling like a certain gender?”

Crowley’s expression softens into amusement.

“No? Like. You know, sometimes you hear someone call you sir and it feels right, and sometimes it’s a confused ma’am and that feels right too? Or someone scrambling to work out a non-gendered word to substitute, and it’s deeply satisfying, somehow. And sometimes presenting as a guy feels right, and sometimes the opposite?”

“Not… really? I mean. My body is that of a man, and that’s how society views me, and it doesn’t… bother me. I’ve never felt like a woman, but I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like a man, either.”

Crowley’s eyebrows appear over his glasses, his forehead going wrinkly and thoughtful for a moment.

“So. Opposite, then, again?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You look and gender and go no thank you, and I go yes, please, more for me.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says, but a little uncertainly.

He hasn’t really thought about it like this before, but the notion doesn’t sound wrong. Looking at Crowley, he attempts to see whether this changes anything. Alters how Aziraphale perceives him. The only difference he spots is the obvious, the lipstick, but it still just looks like Crowley. Not, he thinks, like any category. Just Crowley.

“Is that why you go by your last name? Because it, err, is more neutral?”

“Partly,” Crowley says, “but also I just don’t like Anthony that much. And people kept trying to call me Tony.”

“And you’re not a Tony,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Fuck no.”

They are interrupted, briefly, by four youths running down the stairs, chattering loudly and incomprehensibly, as youths do. They wave to Aziraphale on their way out, and the girl pauses, looks between Aziraphale and Crowley, and grins, giving them a thumbs up. Aziraphale is unsure what for.

“Regulars?”

“Oh yes. Lovely children. They tend to get very interested in one subject or another, and spend hours with terribly specific books when they run out of information on the internet. I can’t imagine it has much to do with what they are learning in school, but they don’t buy anything and that’s the sort of thing I like to encourage in children.”

“Anti-capitalism and rogue information gathering,” Crowley says, and nods.

“Something like that.”

They sit in silence for a bit, watching as the weak attempt at snow outside gives up completely and settles into being just very cold rain. It beats against the windows softly.

“Does it mean you’d like me to call you something different?” Aziraphale asks as he mournfully looks down into his now very empty cup before setting it aside.

It has a little heart drawn on the side of it, next to an illegible scrawl that might have been an attempt at spelling Aziraphale’s name. Or possibly poorly drawn hieroglyphics.

“I’d like for you to keep calling me Crowley, if you don’t mind. Though I’m getting used to my dear as well.”

Crowley’s grin is more high contrast than usual, his amusement thrown into sharp relief. Aziraphale sighs, a little more dramatically than the very mild exasperation he feels.

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale insists.

“I do,” Crowley admits, “and nah. Any… any descriptor is good with me, really. I mean. It changes, right? Not in set patterns or times. Not like I’m expecting you to keep up telepathically. And I mean, it’s not terribly important to me personally, pronouns and stuff. And I know me presenting female and me presenting male are pretty… Pretty similar looks. Only sometimes I feel like make up or slightly higher heels or stuff. Don’t like skirts or dresses or frilly things much. So you might not have noticed.”

Aziraphale frowns.

“I hadn’t realised there was anything to notice?”

“Exactly. Though, been toning it down a little. Just in case, you know. Didn’t want to put too much at you at once.”

Aziraphale blinks.

“And again you thought you’d lead with the snake thing?”

Crowley shrugs.

“Never claimed to make good decisions.”

“…I suppose that is fair enough.”

“Do own a kilt though, which I guess is sort of a skirt.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. Scottish on my father’s side. Never lived anywhere but England, though. Or with him. But you know. Kilts are good.”

“They _are_ tartan,” Aziraphale agrees, and Crowley groans.

“Trust you to focus on that part,” he mutters.

“You know, my mother was Welsh. But she moved here before she met my father, and as you know they, well. So I don’t have as much of a connection as I would like.”

“Hmm. Not quite English solidarity, then. Nice.”

Aziraphale shivers when a new customer opens the door, walks about a metre into the shop before spotting the two of them, frowning, checking their watch, frowning again, and leaving.

“You think they were homophobic or just thought the shop was closed?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale shrugs.

“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. I think I might close shop, anyway. People keep letting the cold in. Would you mind turning the sign while I makes us some nice hot tea? I don’t, I’m afraid, keep any coffee. Although I suppose I ought to start.”

It slips out without him even quite realising, not until Crowley fails to reply, and Aziraphale turns to see him look so soft and love struck he might as well have little hearts drawn on the lenses of his glasses.

“Yeah? Yeah. Sign closing. Can do,” Crowley says, so quick and staccato he almost trips over the words, and turns towards the door.

He slinks into the back room after Aziraphale, just as he pours the hot water over the tea leaves. He sets one down on the small counter space, where Crowley is leaning. Then he leans forward, raising a hand to Crowley’s face.

“May I?”

Crowley makes a vague noise of agreement, and Aziraphale lifts the glasses off him, folding them and setting them carefully down next to the tea cup. He brushes a few loosened strands of coppery red away from Crowley’s face, his fingers lingering over the little inked snake.

“I don’t think we’re opposites, you know.”

“No?”

Crowley’s voice is almost breathless, his bright golden eyes wide.

“Or if we are that it is like colours. Complimentary. Different, yet working perfectly together. Different strengths and different weaknesses.”

He moves his hand down to Crowley’s neck, careful touch, tugging only a little as he leans in to kiss him. Long arms wrap around him, holding him close. In the end, their tea goes cold before they remember it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes for the details I don't want to make up I am very much just using David Tennant and Michael Sheen as inspo fight me  
> Also I am apparently really stuck on this colour theory metaphor. Oops.  
> And, yeah, genderfluid Crowley and Agender Aziraphale just makes sense to me, and is like. Canon adjacent? Insofar as these are, canonically, occulthereal sexless beings above such concepts as gender. So. You know.


	26. Snakes in Bookshops are the Ultimate Customer Service Personell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley helps out. Sort of.

“Look, would you mind telling me where we’re at?”

“Err. St. James’s Park?”

Crowley smiles and rolls his eyes behind dark glasses. They’re walking through the park, quite quickly, as winter still has it’s icy grip on London. Crowley is bundled up in the scarf from Aziraphale, and has his hands shoved as deep into his pockets as they will go, which is not very. He still maintains that the style of a coat is far more important than any practical aspects, which isn’t going great for him, right now. 

“Sure. But emotionally. I mean, not that I’m saying I’m entitled to your full forgiveness, absolutely not, and I’m willing to do whatever you think is necessary for me to regain your trust, but I’d like, I suppose, to have an idea of where we’re at. Not to rush you, again. Just, kind of checking in, you know?”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale, and for a little while they continue walking in silence.

There is sun today, and patches of half melted ice glistens prettily, hiding their slippery danger. Aziraphale’s cheeks are cherubically flushed, and he wears what seems an impractically bulky puffy winter coat. It doesn’t match his style at all, other than his having found one in his preferred shade of beige, and it makes Crowley smile like an idiot every time he looks over at him. Although, to be fair, this happens most times when he looks at Aziraphale. 

“It is… A tiny bit difficult, you see.”

“No, yeah, absolutely.”

“I want to, I want to be completely okay with it,” Aziraphale says, hands wringing, nervously turning the little signet ring he wears on his pinky finger, “But I find that, at least for the moment, I am not.”

“...That’s fair,” Crowley says, working hard to keep emotion out of his voice, because he doesn’t want to make Aziraphale feel like he’s trying to manipulate him.

They continue on in silence for a bit.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, stopping by the river to watch a distressed duck trying to get at something below the thin layer of eyes.

“No, that’s my line,” Crowley argues, taking a chance, extricating a hand from the too small pocket in his too tight jeans and resting it on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what it is,” Aziraphale continues, and he sounds rather sad, “but it’s. It is a lot. But I know you are trying, and I appreciate it a lot. I do want you to know that.”

“Hey, if there’s a chance, I’m happy to wait,” Crowley tells him.

And it is true, he finds. After all, it is not as if Aziraphale isn’t spending time with him any more. It’s just a little distant. It’s still nice. It can be enough, he tells himself.

-

The next Wednesday, Crowley barely manages not to explode. Hastur and Ligur appear to have joined forces to make his life as miserable as possible, Bee has given him just an astounding amount of work that doesn’t, strictly speaking, fall under his job description and they’re being an absolute asshole about it, and two of Crowley’s clients have suddenly lost interest in going through with their purchases. By day’s end he’s so tired, and so frustrated, and he briefly considers quitting on the spot. But he needs the money for his absurdly expensive flat, and he refuses to move. 

**Crowley:** hey, mind if I come over?

 **Aziraphale:** Absolutely not, my dear, I would love to see you. Sincerely, Aziraphale Z. Fell

 **Crowley:** Gr8, see you in a bit

Aziraphale has gotten a bit better at containing his replies to a single text, but he still does insist on signing them all, which is very stupid and incredibly endearing. Once again, he briefly considers confessing his to him, but not yet. Not until they’re more on the same page.

He gets to the shop half an hour later, after a glaring match with some idiot on the tube. It glows warm and inviting, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to make it look suspiciously closed despite the open sign. The bell makes a cheerful noise as he enters, and he sees a head of bright curls poke up from behind the register, and he feels a significant amount of his stress melt away.

There are surprisingly many people in the shop, still. A couple of lone customers wandering along shelves, and a group of teenagers all crowded around a table overflowing with books, excitedly talking and ignoring the older man who tries to shush them. Crowley supports this. He approaches the register, running a hand through his hair to try to mess it up just right. He leans over the desk, where Aziraphale is bent over a partially deconstructed book, doing something complicated with a paint brush and some glue.

“Hi, angel.”

“Crowley, my dear, it’s good to see you. How are you?”

Crowley makes a noise, and a gesture, by which he tries to communicate the hellish day he’s had, but Aziraphale only looks confused.

“Bit of a rough day, actually. And I was wondering if I could just hang out with you for a bit, while, uh,” he trails off, and tries to mime the general idea of a snake.

Aziraphale frowns for a moment, then lights up in understanding.

“Oh! Yes, of course, if that’s what will make you feel better. You can, ah, get changed in the back room, if you’d like.”

Crowley leans across the desk to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, prompting a soft blush to spread across his face. It’s very lovely. 

“Thanks,” he tells him, barely restraining himself from adding “love you.”

-

Aziraphale is attempting to restore an old book for a client, and he has discovered that if he looks busy and doesn’t look up when customers approach him, they usually give up and leave without buying anything, so doing it out here in the shop is terribly efficient. The book had been used as a chew toy by the owner’s dog, and so while the pages are unharmed, the binding has to be redone entirely. It’s a lot of messing about with thread, glue, cardboard and decorative papers, but it’s challenging and methodical and he quite enjoys it. There is something satisfying in being able to be part of creating something he can hold in his hands. Also he enjoys the gold detail lettering that he gets to do as a last step, it’s incredibly satisfying. 

“Oh!”

He startles as he feels something on his shoe, then looks down to see Crowley winding his way up Aziraphale’s leg without waiting to be lifted up.

“Oh, there you are,” he says, voice lower.

There is something very odd and intimate about the way Crowley slithers up his leg, his little scaly head sliding over Aziraphale’s inner thigh through the fabric. But then he’s past that, and Aziraphale is holding out his arm to ease Crowley’s way up to curl around his neck, which seems to be his favourite spot. Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s finger, and allows his scaly forehead to be kissed before hiding his face behind Aziraphale’s bow-tie. Aziraphale gives himself a few moments to stroke those smooth, pretty scales before returning to his task.

“Hi, Mr. Fell, excuse me but could I- Oh! You have a snake!”

Aziraphale looks up to see one of the little teenage gang that has taken to hanging around his shop lately. They annoy other customers and can never afford to buy anything, so he tries to encourage them. Sometimes they get biscuits and tea, but only if they move all the books to a separate table. One of them, the girl, is standing on the other side of the desk, an old copy of a book on marine biology in her hand. She’s got her hair tied back into a puff of tight curls, and her jean jacket is covered in colourful pins, some of which he recognises as various pride flags. He seems to remember her name is some sort of spice. Salt? Turmeric? Sage, perhaps? At least that sounds like a name.

“Ah, yes, young lady, I do.”

“Oh, it’s very cool looking,” she announces with wide eyes, making an aborted gesture with her hand, as if reaching out to pet Crowley before thinking better of it. 

“What’s it’s name?” she asks, and Aziraphale’s eyes widen a touch as he glances down at Crowley, then at the book he is restoring, which happens to be a family Bible.

“Err. Eve,” he says, before thinking better of it.

“She’s very pretty. Can I pet her?” the girl asks, and Aziraphale briefly panics, wondering if this is something he and Crowley ought to have discuss beforehand.

“I, ah, I’ll ask her?” Aziraphale tells her with a nervous smile, but she looks mostly amuse, perhaps assuming him to just be on of those pet owners who are just like that.

“C- Eve, my dear serpent, would you mind if this young lady pets you?” he asks Crowley, lifting his head up to look at him and attempting to communicate that he’s sorry.

Crowley’s expression, as usual, is entirely unreadable, but he unwinds himself from around Aziraphale’s neck and slithers down to curl around his arm, reaching out to allow the girl to carefully pet him. Which is rather nice of him, Aziraphale thinks, he could just as well have hidden inside Aziraphale’s jacket. 

“She won’t bite, will she?”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale promises, “completely harmless. Not venomous either.”

Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale and mimes hissing, and he smiles down at him. 

“She’s very pretty,” the girl murmurs.

“Indeed. Now, was there anything I could help you with? Is your project going well?”

“Oh,” she says, continuing, almost subconsciously, to carefully pet a finger along Crowley’s head, “yeah. We’re looking into the history of whaling, and there’s this one book from the early eighteen hundreds I was hoping you could help us find. Can’t find it at the library or in pdf form anywhere.”

“Oh, certainly,” he says, “let me see.”

-

Two hours later Crowley is feeling significantly better, despite being cooed at by a teenager and Aziraphale accidentally getting glue on his scales. He squeezes Aziraphale in what he has promised him repeatedly is a snakey hug and not an attempt at strangulation, before sliding down him to the floor and slithering back to the back room. He changes back, puts his clothes back on, and makes Aziraphale a cup of tea. Again he considers smuggling in some instant coffee, or, even better, an espresso machine. But those cannot be easily hidden inside old tea tins.

“Here,” he tells Aziraphale, setting the mug down a safe distance from the currently almost finished and put together book.

“Oh, thank you, Crowley. I think I might close up soon. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Always,” he tells him, “want me to go toss out the customers?”

“Oh, if you wouldn’t mind? I have to do this before the glue dries entirely.”

“After the work day I had, being rude to customers counts as therapy. It’s entirely my pleasure, Angel.”

So Crowley slides his sunglasses into place and walks around the shop shooing people out. He tells a middle aged man in a bad suit that someone is towing an expensive looking car outside, causing him to sprint out the door. Then he gives a seven year old girl a five pound note in exchange for dragging her mother out of the shop. An elderly woman is informed that the shopping is closing down forever right now. Eventually all that’s left is the group of teenagers, whom Crowley suspects, based on the interaction with the girl earlier, that Aziraphale likes.

“Hey, kids, just to let you know, we’re closing now.”

In addition to the girl from earlier there are three white boys who exude varying levels of nerdiness and chaotic energy. One has a smear of chocolate just under his eye. Or maybe it’s a new hot make up trend. Crowley isn’t sure.

“Actually,” the one who exudes the energy of someone extremely bullyable, “the sign says you close in an hour.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow above his glasses. It’s an expression he’s practised extensively in the mirror to ensure it’s effectiveness. At least one of the boys looks suitably vaguely intimidated.  
“Well, now we’re closing now,” Crowley says, as decisively as he can.

“But you don’t work here,” the kid argues, and Crowley sort of admires his insistence.

“That’s Mr. Fell’s boyfriend, Wens, I’m sure he’s right,” the girl points out.

“Is not,” the boy argues.

“Am too,” Crowley says, crossing his arms, “and the cool girl is right, I do know. Look, I would like to fuck my boyfriend on every surface in the shop, so please put the books back and get out, all right?”

This isn’t a lie, he would very much like that. But they’re still not quite there. The kids, though, predictably grimace and look deeply upset.

“Eww,” the girl says, seeming suddenly reluctant to touch the table.

“Because you’re old,” she clarifies, “not because you’re gay.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Appreciate that. Now get out, yeah?”

It’s very efficient, and they clear up very quickly. Another kid, whom Crowley hadn’t noticed before, slides on a pair of bulky headphones and follows them out. Crowley wonders if anyone has ever gotten lost in the shop, not gotten out before Aziraphale closes up. Despite the fact it’s not a massive shop, it is overcrowded and easy to get lost in.

He returns to Aziraphale, who is just clearing up his supplies.

“All done?” Crowley asks.

“All done,” Aziraphale confirms, “will you join me upstairs?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally forgot to update this for a month oops. Got too wrapped up in my other fic, which all of five people are reading. Sorry. But I have an idea for the next chapter too, so I'll try to start on that tomorrow, and update this fic more regularly again. Several ideas, actually, which I think might be fun. And will maybe advance the "plot". I'll try.


	27. Unwanted Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's brother checks in

Crowley often comes by the shop in the evening, these days. His work starts and finishes earlier than Aziraphale’s shop’s opening times, so by the time he has gotten back to their part of the city Aziraphale usually keeps the shop open for another hour or two, during which he greatly appreciates the company. Which is odd. He isn’t used to the feeling, is used to enjoying his solitude, getting what interaction he needs from brushing off customers and chatting to the baker across the street about the merits of different pastries, or meeting up with Tracy about once every fortnight or so, but now he finds he hopes Crowley will text that he’s coming over. That he waits excitedly for his arrival. Like now.

Currently it’s raining outside, cold and miserable and sad, and his shop is filled with people who somehow thought his shop looked like a warm and inviting place to hide from the weather. Which Aziraphale doesn’t love, not really, because there’s the chance of them dripping on the books, but at least they’re unlikely to buy anything. Instead they mill around, looking at their mobile telephones, casting impatient looks out through the windows.

Aziraphale looks down at his computer again, from which he is trying to send some electronic mail, but it is still only midway through its ten minute start up process. Crowley tells him that computers these days, computers, even, from the current millennium, start up significantly faster these days, but Aziraphale likes this machine, and since it does still work, he sees no reason to get rid of it. He feels fondly towards the clunky machine, rather stuck in time, much like he himself sometimes feels. It’s named Methuselah, as the neatly handwritten label on the thick edge around the monitor says. Aziraphale’s mobile vibrates loudly against the desk.

 **Crowley:** there soon, rush extra bad 2day :(

Most of the text makes sense this time, which is nice. Sometimes the ways in which Crowley communicates are almost entirely incomprehensible to Aziraphale, but then that’s some of his charm. The wily serpent insists this is because Aziraphale is too old to get it, despite the fact that Crowley is just two years younger than him. It is, Crowley claims, those two years that count. 

They’re getting better, now. Or Aziraphale is getting better, or being more able to let go. At least he thinks so, because it is starting to feel very easy to be around Crowley again. Easy to enjoy it and go hours before he will remember what he did. Before the worry that somehow he is being manipulated comes creeping back. Even if he knows, even if Crowley has promised. But it’s less frequent, less strong. Yet a strain of anxiety that is hard to rid himself of nevertheless. 

Crowley hurries through the door about fifteen minutes later, cursing to himself and accidentally knocking over a stack of books. He curses again, more loudly, drawing some glares as he bends down to pick the books up and replace them with a care and precision that makes Aziraphale’s heart beat just a little faster. 

“Angel,” Crowley says after he has shoved through the crowd of rain-wet customers, and insinuates himself behind the register to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale reaches up, resting his hand on Crowley’s cheek and tugs him into a proper kiss. The gentle surprised breath is incredibly satisfying. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale says, voice soft and low.

“He- ngk,” Crowley replies, a hint of a blush spreading across his cheeks.

Crowley is wearing the black lipstick again, which suits him, and a shirt that has a very deep v, showing off a long triangle of chest hair and a golden snake necklace. He looks terribly pretty. Aziraphale has a vague idea that people are looking at them, but if they are put off by this then he doesn’t want their business. Well, he already doesn’t, not really, but even less so, at any rate.

“How are you, my dear?”

“Mm. Good. Very good, now.”

He is still standing so very close, and Aziraphale moves his hand down to settle on Crowley’s hip. Aziraphale is just about to kiss Crowley again when he hears a horribly familiar voice behind him.

“Aziraphale?”

Gabriel.

“Gabriel.”

He turns to look at where his brother is standing just beyond the entrance to the shop, where customers have, fortunately started to leave, sensing, probably, that there is about to be A Scene. Gabriel, who has somehow avoided getting rained on at all, despite his lack of an umbrella, looks from Aziraphale to Crowley to the position of Aziraphale’s hand with an uncomfortable grimace that may have started as a smile.

“Hey, little brother, who’s your… friend?”

He always adds little, despite being only a year older than Aziraphale, and it feels, always, very pointed, whether it’s meant that way or not. Crowley, Aziraphale can see beneath the glasses, glances to him, eyebrows raised in question. Not wanting to make a scene and make Aziraphale uncomfortable, clearly, not more than Gabriel’s presence usually demands. But then, he’s pretty sure there is a smudge of black lipstick on his own lips, now, so it’s a bit late to hide anything. Not that he wants to, anyway.

“This is Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and then, after a deep breath, “my boyfriend.”

The word boyfriend feels a little juvenile, but he can’t think of a better term. He realises he hasn’t asked Crowley whether he’s comfortable with such a deliberately gendered term. Probably they ought to discuss that, because all the more neutral words Aziraphale can think of sound even more odd. Lover? Paramour? Are they each other’s significant other yet? Crowley is certainly significant to him, but he is not sure what the parameters are, exactly when you become one. And it feels a thing on which one ought to agree, too. The thing, Aziraphale is finding, about romantic relationships is that they require a lot of communication about terminology and boundaries and understandings, and almost all of them are awkward and anxiety inducing.

“Your… boyfriend. Really, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure what part Gabriel is reacting to, but he glances at Crowley apologetically just to be sure.

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?” Crowley demands, blindly grabbing at Aziraphale’s hand a squeezing it reassuringly.

Gabriel shakes his head, but it is very clear that he does. Aziraphale isn’t sure which part he objects to; Crowley or the fact of Aziraphale being in a relationship. Because although he always says that Aziraphale should date, in the same way that he says he should run a better business, Aziraphale suspects that though he probably genuinely wants Aziraphale to do better, he always revels in being able to look down at him.

“No,” Gabriel adds, “not at all. I’m thrilled you’ve, uh, been able to find someone, Az, even if it’s-”

Crowley’s withering glare is strong enough even through his sunglasses to stop him in his tracks.

“Someone like this,” Gabriel finishes with an impressively fake smile.

“Like what?” Crowley challenges, as if he wants Gabriel to insult him.

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand in what is intended as a warning. Crowley turns towards him, just a little bit, looking at him and giving just the slightest twitch of a little smile. And Aziraphale realises that Crowley has probably had a lot of these confrontations with people, that he’s used to it. Not, perhaps, enough to not be bothered by it, but still, Aziraphale doesn’t want it for him.

“Some kind of…” Gabriel pauses, looking Crowley up and down with a frown, “washed up failed rock star? Hair dresser? Artist?”

He says the last one as if that is the worst possibility of them all. Crowley looks less insulted than mildly confused at what Gabriel considers to be the lowest of the low.

“I work in tech?” he says, seemingly too baffled to lie, “what are you- Whatever. What do you want?”

“Just here to check in with my little brother. Surprised to see so many customers here, Aziraphale, well done at last. Although they do seem to be leaving. But if you keep implementing some of the tips I gave you you might make it yet!”

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who is smiling, but in a way that manages to convey aggressive disgust and rage. Which is nice, to feel validated in how absolutely terrible Gabriel makes him feel, despite, Aziraphale is certain, his best intentions. 

“As I’ve told you, Gabriel, I’m perfectly happy with my shop as it is.”

“But you could be making so much money! You could get employees, so you don’t have to be here all the time. You could pay others to actually run the shop, and then expand, get more branches. Maybe even get a real apartment, not this tiny room above the shop!”

Aziraphale sighs.

“But I don’t want that. I _like_ running my shop, I like my flat, and I don’t want employees.”

“But you could make so much more money!” Gabriel insists.

“What for?”

Gabriel looks annoyed, as if money is, in itself, an argument. As if all that matters is the upwards progression in monetary gain, the accumulation of funds for no other purpose than itself. It is quite sad, Aziraphale finds, that this seems to truly be how Gabriel feels. 

“Look, leave him alone,” Crowley says, quite calmly.

“Your brother is happy with his life, just let him be, yeah?”

“But-” Gabriel starts to argue, but Crowley interrupts him.

“He is content. Isn’t that what everyone should strive for? To be at a place where there’s no pressing needs? Aziraphale’s doing good. Just, you know, fuck off back where you came from?”

This too is said calmly, like a suggestion, despite the wording. Gabriel smiles, condescending and awful, like Crowley has just proven a point. And perhaps he has. 

“Sure,” Gabriel says, “okay. But I did come for a reason. And your, uh, presence, well. That works. I was going to ask you to come to dinner, Aziraphale, meet my new partner. But now you can bring Crowley! Make it a double date! That’s fun.”

“Fun,” Aziraphale echoes dully, “yes. But, you see-”

“That sounds great,” Crowley says, at the same time. 

Aziraphale looks to him, then relents.

“Yes. All right. When did you have in mind?”

Gabriel stays for a few minutes, working out details as Crowley visibly seethes at him. It’s both inconvenient and endearing. When he leaves, and they check around to find all the other customers have left too, Aziraphale closes the shop, and then makes himself a cup of calming tea.

“You all right?” Crowley asks, “you brother seems like a twat.”

“He just… he has different values than me, when it comes to certain things,” Aziraphale says, feeling weirdly defensive, though he can’t think why.

“Sure, but that’s no reason to be so rude to you.”

He kisses Aziraphale’s cheek, rests a hand on his arm. It does feel nice.

They go upstairs and Aziraphale cooks an at best mediocre pasta dish for them, which they eat on the sofa. Crowley helps Aziraphale get his incredibly old and clunky television working again, the one that only gets about ten channels, seven of which are BBC. It has been here since the old owner, and Aziraphale isn’t really a television person, so he has never felt the need to upgrade. Tonight, though, they sit on the sofa watching an old spy film from the forties, all black and white footage and stylised acting, neither of them really paying much attention. Crowley gradually creeps closer, not very subtly, until he is leaning on Aziraphale, his head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Will you stay, tonight?” Aziraphale asks as the credits roll and some chirpy announcer lists the upcoming shows, most of which are horrid reality television things.

Crowley turns his head towards him, eyes big and golden and full of careful hope.

“You want me to?”

“I want you to.”

“Then yes, of course.”

He pushes himself up and kisses Aziraphale, softly and with such gentle tenderness. Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, which feels softer than usual. 

Crowley falls asleep before Aziraphale does, as always. He has an arm thrown over Aziraphale’s stomach, and his face pressed into the pillow in a way that doesn’t look like it should allow him to breathe, but he seems to be fine. It is nice, Aziraphale thinks, to have someone there. Who doesn’t demand anything other than some extra body heat and roughly two thirds of the duvet. Aziraphale leans over and kisses Crowley’s hair, and thinks that maybe everything is, as he told Gabriel, good.


	28. Double Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale go to Gabriel and it gets predictably socially uncomfortable

Aziraphale meets Crowley on the way to Gabriel’s. He finds him outside the tube station where they have agreed to find each other, searching for barely a few seconds before spotting slick black clothes and bright coppery red hair. While he makes his way over towards him, excusing himself as he pushes past evening commuters, he sees Crowley’s face break into a smile as he spots him, big and bright and easy. It warms his heart.

“Angel, hi,” Crowley says, and pulls Aziraphale into a quick hug.

He looks lovely, again slightly more feminine, with golden snake themed jewellery and the black lipstick again. Aziraphale wonders whether it’s because it is what he feels like or because he thinks Gabriel will dislike it, because he had seemed to quite dislike Aziraphale’s brother. And admittedly Gabriel can be… abrasive, at times, but Crowley had mostly seemed to dislike him based on the way he talked to Aziraphale, which does feel quite nice.

“You ready?” Crowley asks as they walk towards Gabriel’s flat.

“I am,” Aziraphale says, “I’ve brought wine.”

Crowley laughs.

“Yeah. Good. Do love wine, but I meant more like. Emotionally.”

“Ah. Well, yes, I think so. It’s always quite tiring, spending time with my brother, but you’ll be there, which I’m sure will help. And I am quite curious to meet this new partner of his.”

“You okay with bringing me? Okay with me… dunno, looking like this?”

There is a hint of hesitation in Crowley’s voice, which Aziraphale shuts down immediately.

“Of course! You look absolutely lovely, my dear, and, well, I suppose this is a little mean of me, but seeing Gabriel’s reaction, it was a little bit satisfying. Although it might have been his being surprised that anyone would want to be in any sort of romantic relationship with me. But you look beautiful, however you look, and I’ll always be proud to be seen with you, my dear. Just- just stay human shaped for the duration, perhaps? Although no doubt seeing Gabriel find a snake in his home would be amusing.”

Crowley leans in to kiss his cheek.

“No snake. Promise.”

Shortly after they get to the building, and are buzzed up to Gabriel’s top floor flat. It feels a bit like Crowley’s building, very cold and impersonal and imposing, as if clearly trying to communicate to any and all guests that they are not, in fact, good enough to be there. 

“Aziraphale! And- I’m terribly sorry, I’ve forgotten…”

“Crowley,” Crowley says, a bit colder than he needs to, Aziraphale feels, although Gabriel might have at least tried.

“Right. Is that your first name?”

“No. Just the one I prefer.”

“What’s the first one, then?” Gabriel prods.

“Anthony,” Crowley tells him after a moment of hesitation.

“Ah, great. Well, come in, I’ll get- they’re in the kitchen, hold on.”

Gabriel disappears into the flat, and Aziraphale and Crowley looks at each other, then follow him. The flat is Scandinavian inspired, not in the sense that it exudes hygge in any conceivable way, but more so that it seems entirely composed of white boxes. Aziraphale almost envies Crowley his sunglasses. It’s very minimalist in its décor, with square beige sofas, abstract paintings of the kind made by interior designers and a single square white book case filled mostly with various awards, vaguely attractive décor items and a single shelf of books about business practises.

A minute later, Gabriel reappears with the person who is, presumably, his partner. They are not what Aziraphale had expected at all. They’ve got longish messy black hair, and what looks a bit like several small insects tattooed up the side of their neck. They’re wearing black trousers, and a washed black oversized blazer over a t-shirt which appears to depict a scene from Lord of the Flies. So. They enjoy literature. That’s something.

“Right,” Gabriel says, “Aziraphale, Anthony, this is-”

“Bee?” Crowley asks, “what the fuck, boss?”

“Crowley,” the person, presumably Bee, says, voice flatly surprised, “what are you doing here?”

“You two know each other?” Gabriel asks, seeming almost disappointed.

“Yeah,” Bee says, “Crowley works for me.”

“Oh, really? That’s great!” Gabriel says.

“Debatable,” Bee mutters.

“Hey! I’m your top sales person,” Crowley protests.

“And yet your paperwork is mysteriously always a week late.”

“I bring in clients, that’s the important part. Anyway. Not the time for an employee review, maybe.”

“Right!” Gabriel says, “Well, Bee, you know Anthony, and this is my little brother, Aziraphale. Adopted, as you see, not much family resemblance.”

Aziraphale smiles politely. He isn’t entirely sure why it’s so important for Gabriel to underline the fact that they are not biologically related, but he has gotten used to it by now. Crowley shuffles aira little closer, puts a hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back.

“Can’t fucking believe this,” Bee says, “am I going to have to see you socially now?”

“Not more than you have to, promise,” Crowley tells them.

Aziraphale feels validated in his choice to avoid hiring employees. They follow Bee and Gabriel into the open dining room, which is also largely composed of white squares with hints of an almost matt sort of silvery touch. There are no pictures anywhere, no clutter. Perfectly presentable, clean and without a speck of dust daring to show itself. Sterile. Unwelcoming. It feels like a show home, but in a slightly different way than Crowley’s flat does. He supposes both do represent some part of their residents, but there is no lovely plant room here. No record player and bookshelf full of records. No ostentatious throne.

“So, how did you meet?” Gabriel asks as Aziraphale chews his way through some steamed broccoli that has never been within five metres of any sort of spice or seasoning, despite his repeated attempts to explain to Gabriel that spices aren’t that full of calories.

Aziraphale and Crowley glance at each other. Obviously the actual truth won’t do. Aziraphale gives Crowley the tiniest of nods.

“Well, I started going to his bookshop,” Crowley says, “because there was a really good collection on botanical literature. And you know. Supporting small businesses and whatnot. And because I found Aziraphale’s approach to customer service very endearing.”

Gabriel looks deeply sceptical.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, “and I eventually got him to stop buying all my books, and I warmed up to him quite quickly after that.”

“He doesn’t like people buying his books,” Crowley adds, for the benefit of a puzzled looking Bee.

“Interesting way to run a shop,” they say, and Gabriel sighs.

“I’ve tried to explain to him, but…”

“What about you?” Crowley interjects, “how did you two meet?”

Aziraphale fumbles blindly for his hand under the table, then gives it a grateful squeeze. Crowley squeezes back, and takes a long drink of the wine Gabriel had reluctantly agreed to open. It doesn’t go great with the fish, but at least it has flavour. It’s not that the food is prepared without skill, but with the sort of disdain for spices that makes the history of Britain so terribly ironic.

“Conference,” Bee says, “this guy had a terribly presentation. Had to find him and correct him afterwards. In my hotel room.”

Gabriel actually blushes a little bit, trying and failing to come up with a suitable defence.

“Oh, that’s why you said the last one wasn’t as terrible as usual, then?” Crowley asks.

Bee shrugs and nods.

“Usually no people there hot enough,” they say, very casually, as if deliberately to fluster Gabriel.

And it strikes Aziraphale how odd he and Crowley must seem together, because it is much the same contrast, he finds, that exists between Bee and Gabriel, although there it is perhaps even more exaggerated, with the height difference and everything. 

“Well,” says Gabriel, “if Anthony works with Bee, then perhaps he can be a good influence on you, Az. Help you get your business running properly.”

“I believe he prefers to go by Crowley,” Aziraphale corrects, both in defence of Crowley and because these sorts of discussions always make him deeply uncomfortable.

“He does,” agrees Crowley, “and I think Aziraphale runs his shop exactly the way he wants to, _Gabe_.”

Gabriel frowns, but seems to take the point. Bee looks entirely unbothered if not a little bored by all this. 

“But it’s not very profitable,” Gabriel argues, “there’s so much room for improvement!”

“Well, who gives a fuck how much money it makes as long as Aziraphale’s happy with it?” Crowley argues, and though Aziraphale takes some issue with the wording, he does very much appreciate it.

“Yes, Gabriel, I’m sure you’re successful enough for all the family,” Aziraphale adds, more gently.

“Of course I am,” Gabriel replies, quite smugly, “but I just want the best for my little brother. I want him to be successful, be healthy, do as well in life as he can, and Az, well, you just don’t seem to want to.”

Aziraphale looks down at his plate, feeling quite guilty, as he usually does.

“Well, have you considered respecting that?” Crowley asks pointedly, draining his wine glass and pouring himself another, and then topping up Aziraphale’s glass too.

“Well, sure, but-”

“But what? If you want what’s best for him then be happy that he’s happy. Otherwise you just want him to be more like you.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” demands Gabriel, and Crowley pointedly raises his eyebrows and drinks more wine.

Even Bee looks a little uncomfortable at this point.

“Look, if you’re going to be an asshole about this,” Gabriel begins.

“Then what? I’m not the one bullying his brother.”

The evening does not improve much from there, but the hostility subsides eventually. When they get into the lift down, Crowley is fuming. 

“Can’t believe he’s so fucking shitty to you,” he mutters, glaring at his own reflection in the mirrored walls.

“I- I don’t know. I suppose I am the family disappointment,” Aziraphale says, sticking his hands deep into his pockets.

“Well, if that’s what all your family is like I’d say that’s a good thing,” Crowley tells him.

It is pretty nice, having Crowley come to his defence so aggressively, even if the dinner was, if possible, even more awkward than usual. 

“Just, what a fucking douchebag. Can’t understand what Bee sees in him. Or maybe that’s just their type, I don’t know. Doesn’t deserve how nice you are to him.”

“I know he seems… perhaps a little arrogant,” Aziraphale says, “but he doesn’t mean it maliciously. He just has a very different view on things than I do.”

“I- Yeah. Right. But please know you deserve to be treated better, all right?” Crowley says, placing a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek as they walk out into the cold drizzle of the night.

Aziraphale shivers.

“You want to get some takeaway dessert and come back to mine?” Crowley asks as they hurry back to the tube station.

Aziraphale thinks maybe Crowley is the ideal boyfriend after all.

“I would love that.”

-

They spend the rest of the evening together on Crowley’s sofa, drinking and talking and enjoy some only slightly disappointing cake. Well, mostly Aziraphale enjoys it, and Crowley seems to enjoy watching him. It’s almost nice to have the contrast of having been to Gabriel’s, because in comparison Crowley’s flat seems much friendlier. Aziraphale went by the plant room to coo at all the lovely flowers earlier, to Crowley’s displeasure. Apparently they won’t grow as well if spoiled by compliments. Crowley is ridiculous and quite lovely.

Aziraphale yawns.

“Would you, you know, like to stay the night?” Crowley asks, very carefully, not looking at Aziraphale’s face.

He checks his pocket watch. It’s a little past midnight, and he doesn’t really feel like the half hour walk. And, given Crowley’s enthusiasm for sleep, perhaps his bed is the one piece of actually comfortable furniture.

“I would love to,” he tells Crowley, and leans in to give him a kiss. 

Crowley blushes prettily, and Aziraphale smiles as reassuringly as he can. 

Crowley’s bed, as it turns out, is incredibly comfortable, and Aziraphale is forced to consider that the one he bought nearly two decades ago might be due for a replacement. Or he can just stay here more. That’s definitely an option.

He feels a little self conscious, wearing only his underwear and an under shirt. He has always been a bit self conscious about his body, or at least about how others view it, but Crowley seems, if anything, flustered and delighted. He approaches him, slowly, looking him up and down before pulling him into a kiss, smoothing his hands down over Aziraphale’s chest, his arms. Presses himself against him in all the spots Aziraphale feels the most uncomfortable about and seeming to take great joy in it. Holds him close, and eventually Aziraphale manages to move past his preoccupation with how he looks, and to instead appreciate how lovely Crowley looks. He is all elegant angles and long limbs, lightly freckled in places. Red hair and golden eyes a beautiful contrast.

They get in the bed, and when they are covered it’s a little easier for Aziraphale to just enjoy their closeness. To kiss Crowley and be held by him and simply enjoy the feeling of it. When Aziraphale rests his head into the pillow it smells faintly of Crowley, and that’s quite lovely. Eventually Crowley snuggles his head into Aziraphale’s chest, throws and arm over him and tangles their legs together. Crowley may himself not be sure if he is venomous, but from the way he acts, whatever his physical form, Aziraphale is fairly certain that he is some kind of constrictor. But in the sweetest possible way.


	29. Sunny Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes up in Crowley's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some nsfw content in this chapter so idk skip if you're not into that

Aziraphale wakes up in the middle of the night, and is briefly very disoriented, before he hears the soft sound of Crowley’s breathing. He blinks until the room resolves itself into a dim but clear shape, and he looks over at Crowley’s sleeping face. It looks so soft, so relaxed and just a little silly. He carefully extricates himself from the tangle of long limbs, and get out of the bed, padding out of the room and attempting to make his way to the kitchen. It’s a big flat, with long and entirely unnecessary hallways, and he has only been here two times before, so he does end up in the plant room first. Before looking further he makes sure to tell the beautiful plants and flowers that they are doing wonderfully. But softly, in case they are sleeping. Do flowers sleep? They close up their petals, some of them, don’t they? That’s a bit like sleeping.

He goes through five different cabinets before he manages to find the glasses, and gets some water. The kitchen is large and seems barely used, with the exception of a microwave whose insides look quite stained, and the very large and complicated looking espresso machine. He glances at the fridge, and notices that the copy of the lost pet poster Aziraphale made last summer hangs there. His initial reaction is a wave of hot embarrassment, but if Crowley has kept it, it’s probably because he finds it funny or sweet, rather than to make fun of Aziraphale. Perhaps he doesn’t have many pictures of his snake form. That is certainly something Aziraphale could help with.

When Aziraphale gets back into bed, trying to move slow and not wake Crowley, the sleeping man nevertheless moves closer. Sensing, perhaps, that his external heat source has returned. He curls into him, presses his face into Aziraphale’s neck and murmuring something that sounds an awful lot like “love you”. But that can’t be it, can it? No, Crowley is dreaming. Asleep. It’s not about Aziraphale. Although, who is there in his life whom he loves? What does it mean if it is Aziraphale he means? It seems awfully early, still, for such a declaration. Only it’s not, is it? It’s sleep talking. Does Aziraphale love Crowley? No. Not now. But he is _in_ love with him. And he feels like someone he can come to love. He just needs time, always more time. Crowley is being so lovely, never moving too fast, but it’s clear that he is a step ahead of Aziraphale at all times. But perhaps that is okay.

Aziraphale drifts off eventually, soothed by the warm feeling of Crowley pressed against him. He has distressing dreams, but he wakes up to warm sunlight and Crowley kissing his cheek, and he manages to forget them almost immediately.

“Morning,” Crowley murmurs.

“Sleep well?”

“I did,” Aziraphale replies, and it is mostly true.

“I’ve missed it,” Crowley says, folding his arms on Aziraphale’s chest and resting his head on them, “this. Waking up with you.”

“Because you’re cold blooded and can’t warm up the bed on your own?” Aziraphale jokes, and Crowley smiles.

“Won’t deny that that helps. But mostly you. Just- Just seeing you makes everything feel better. Like the sun even when it’s cloudy. Like everything is going to be okay.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that, so he leans in to kiss Crowley, burying his hand in that lovely long red hair. Neither of them have particularly good breath at the moment, but that doesn’t matter. Which is odd. It’s very odd how entirely comfortable Crowley makes him feel. Valued and comfortable and like the things he worries about don’t really matter. And he finds himself caring less and less about the way their relationship started, and the things Crowley did. Not in the way of finding them okay, because they were not, but things that he can start to forgive, because of all the other things Crowley does for him, rather than to him.

“D’you have to open shop today?” Crowley asks, stroking a finger along the edge of Aziraphale’s under shirt, over skin and curled hair.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Aziraphale says, pretending to consider it.

“Come on,” Crowley encourages, “be bad, just this once. You’ve earned it.”

“I have, have I?”

“You have,” Crowley says with great confidence, underlining his point with a kiss, and that’s rather a hard point to argue with.

“All right. I suppose the customers can be shooed out of other places today.”

“Excellent.”

Crowley places an elbow next to Aziraphale’s head, looking down at him with his long hair hanging down around them, blocking out most of the light. Looking up into those spectacular golden eyes he feels a thrill go through him. It is something, perhaps, about knowing that he is, occasionally, a predator, however much that predator is quite small and cute. Crowley leans down to kiss him, and Aziraphale’s hands find their way to his shoulders, pulling him down on top of him. This has the added effect of making Aziraphale feel that Crowley is hard, pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh. Which is sort of oddly validating.

Crowley presses kisses down to Aziraphale’s jaw and down his throat. Pushes a hand under the edge of Aziraphale’s shirt and over the soft swell of his belly, up to his chest. Drags a black painted nail across Aziraphale’s nipple and oh! Oh. That does feel nice. Aziraphale can feel himself getting hard, can tell Crowley notices too. He presses a kiss to the centre of Aziraphale’s chest and looks up at him.

“Is this okay? Do you want to do this?”

Aziraphale hesitates for a few seconds.

“Yes.”

“Sure? Don’t want to pressure you into something you don’t want.”

Aziraphale takes a breath. Thinks about it properly. 

“Yes.”

Crowley surges up to kiss him, both hands on the sides of his face. It’s intense, but also quite gentle, quite sweet. Crowley pulls back, hovering for a moment. Aziraphale reaches up to cup his cheek in his hand, the side with the little snake.

“Thank you. For being patient with me, for waiting.”

“Oh, anything for you, angel,” Crowley whispers, staring at Aziraphale with such adoration that it is almost overwhelming.

It’s almost a relief when he starts to kiss his way down Aziraphale’s torso again, because he isn’t sure how to deal with all that emotion. Perhaps sleeping Crowley really did mean him.

Crowley doesn’t undress him, which Aziraphale appreciates, merely presses kisses through thin fabric, slipping fingers under the shirt briefly to tug fingers through curled hair, to press gently into skin. He tugs down Aziraphale’s underwear, just enough to pull his flushed cock out, and Aziraphale gasps. It has been so terribly long since anyone else touched him like that. 

Soft lips press a kiss to the head, tongue slipping out to lick over it as fingers tighten around his base, and Aziraphale can’t help but move his hips, chasing the sensation. Crowley wraps his lips around him, easing himself slowly down Aziraphale’s length, hot and wet and the perfect amount of pressure. Aziraphale moans, embarrassingly loud, and he feels Crowley’s lips stretch into a smile around him.

Crowley, it turns out, is quite good at this, although the amount of time since Aziraphale last had any sort of relations with anyone other than his own hand no doubt contributes a little. Either way, it takes him less time than he would like to come. He taps Crowley’s shoulder urgently, trying to get the words out, but Crowley doesn’t pull off, swallowing down his release. 

“Good lord,” Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley presses a kiss to the sensitive head of his softening cock. Then he moves up, leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek and settling next to him,

“That was… Very nice, my dear.”

Crowley laughs, soft and gentle.

“I’m glad, angel.”

Aziraphale gives himself a moment to enjoy the aftershocks, then turns onto his side to face Crowley.

“I’m sorry, it has been. Well. Longer than I’m comfortable admitting since the last time.”

“No worries,” Crowley assures him.

Aziraphale strokes a few sweat sticky strands of hair from Crowley’s forehead, and leans in to kiss him, long and deep. He can taste himself on Crowley’s mouth, and he strokes Crowley’s face once more, before moving his hand downwards, along angled shoulders and a slender chest. He has never been good at blowjobs, never managed to make himself enjoy it, and he wants their first experience to be something he enjoys, so just his hand will have to do for now. Crowley does not seem to mind, starting to grind his hips against him before Aziraphale’s hand is even past his ribs.

“Don’t have to,” Crowley murmurs, while his body is very clearly communicating that he quite desperately wants it.

Aziraphale appreciates the attempt.

“I want to, Crowley, I promise.”

And he kisses him again, and tries to remember how to do this to someone else. He sticks to things he knows he likes, mostly, experimenting a little and listening to the noises Crowley makes, what makes him buck his hips into Aziraphale’s hand. His cock is quite lovely, nestled in darker copper curls, all long and elegant, like the rest of Crowley. Aziraphale wonders what it might feel like inside him. 

Crowley’s kisses get less coordinated quite quickly, his hands holding on to Aziraphale, fingers digging gently into the parts of Aziraphale which makes him the most self conscious, but Crowley doesn’t seem to mind at all. Seems to be having a very good time, in fact, making delightful moans and little noises, slightly garbled attempts at Aziraphale’s name. 

Aziraphale watches Crowley’s face as he comes, and it’s beautiful. Body arcing in an elegant curve, eyes half closed, mouth falling open, lips reddened and slightly swollen. He breathes heavily, eyes slipping closed and mouth settling into a soft smile. Aziraphale leans in to kiss him.

“Mm. Good,” Crowley announces, voice soft and lazy.

“Good,” Aziraphale agrees.

Crowley seems terribly comfortable where he is, so Aziraphale goes out to the bathroom, gets a wet cloth and goes back to clean them off.

“Good service. Ten out of ten,” Crowley says, grinning up at him.

Aziraphale joins him in the bed again, kissing him. Crowley shifts so he can rest his head on Aziraphale’s chest again, which seems like it’s his favourite place to be. So perhaps it is a good thing that Aziraphale isn’t terribly muscular there. 

“There is a nice bakery about five minutes away,” Crowley says, “let me take you to breakfast?”

“That sounds lovely.”

A few minutes later, Aziraphale is standing in front of the mirror in Crowley’s bathroom. He has undressed, ready to take a quick shower, but he can’t help but look at himself and wonder what Crowley sees in him. He’s… soft. It’s a very long time since he has done anything more strenuous than lift crates of books or go for a walk, and it rather shows in his physique. Long, pale stretch marks riddle his body, and he is terribly pale. Still, Crowley wants him, doesn’t he? But because of or despite what he looks like? 

He does the obligatory dance of attempting to work out how the shower works and why the temperatures are all wrong that one experiences in every shower but one’s own before getting in. It’s one of those fancy showers where the water comes from directly above him, and he doesn’t enjoy it. It’s all very well, he thinks, as he uses probably too much of what seems like a terribly expensive shower gel, to be happy with your body when you are the only one who sees it, but it’s another when there is someone else. Someone who wants to see you, all of you. Who desires you. 

When he emerges from the steaming bathroom, his hair sticking up in slightly spikier curls than usual, an almost cloying scent of citrus follows him. Crowley is waiting in the kitchen, sipping a cup of espresso and gesturing to a mug of tea that sits ready for him. It feels very easy, very comfortable all of a sudden, like this is something they’ve done before. Aziraphale sits down at the island, because of course Crowley is too cool and modern for a kitchen table, and he looks at Crowley resting his head in his palm and watching him and he feels almost overwhelmingly comfortable. The sun, because Crowley’s flat seems chosen to maximise the amount of exposure to sunlight, hits his eyes at this angle, making them almost glow. It’s beautiful. It feels right.


	30. Apologies & Inadvertent Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bee turns out to be a surprisingly decent person, Gabriel confirms himself not to be, and Crowley makes a Mistake

The following Monday morning Crowley corners Bee by the coffee maker. He fills a large mug with tiny ristretto shots, mostly so the drone of the machine will be too loud for the rest of the office to overhear.

“Gabriel? Really?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

“What? I’m not the one dating a nerd who dresses like the 1800s,” Bee responds with a glare.

They hold their empty mug, looking at the machine they are clearly having to wait a while to use.

“Hey! That’s my nerd. Who- right, okay, that is a fair accusation, yeah. But really? Gabriel? That absolute twat?”

Bee shrugs, seeming unbothered.

“He’s not that bad. Not to me, anyway. And really good in bed. I do have to gag him sometimes, but you know. It adds to the experience.”

Crowley grimaces.

“Disgusting mental image. Horrifying.”

Bee smirks.

“But, right, we’re agreed we’re never mentioning this to anyone, yes?”

“Oh, definitely,” Bee agrees, “if I had thought for a moment that that nerd was dating someone I know I would never have agreed to that dinner.”

“Sensible,” Crowley agrees, “yeah.”

“I will tell him to use your proper name, though. That was pretty shitty of him.”

Crowley feels his face soften.

“Thanks.”

“Ugh. Don’t. And you’re going to have to make more sales if you keep using ten coffee pods for a single cup.”

Crowley looks at his almost overflowing mug.

“Right. Yes. Will do.”

-

A few days later Crowley has come to snake out with Aziraphale after work. He brings some pastries to apologise for his just wanting to be small and scaly and non-verbal, despite Aziraphale’s repeated claims that he doesn’t mind, and it’s lovely having some quiet company while he works. Still, Crowley keeps feeling like he needs to apologise for it, for being… well. Serpentine. Or for being that rather than human.

The shop is rather busy, still, as the evenings are starting to get longer and lighter, and there is the pleasant buzzing noise of people, walking and murmuring to each other and leafing through books. Aziraphale is warm and comfortable and occasionally reaches up to stroke Crowley’s scales and tell him how pretty he is. It is, Crowley thinks, an ideal way to unwind. Metaphorically, of course, because he is wound almost tightly around Aziraphale’s neck. 

“How are you doing, my pretty?” Aziraphale asks, running a finger over the scales on Crowley’s head, “Are you warm enough?”

They have talked about it, agreed that it’s best if Aziraphale doesn’t really talk to him like a person, when he’s all snaky and there are people around. Like the way a person might, perhaps, talk to their pet. So Crowley nods, looking up at Aziraphale’s face and flicking his tongue out.

“That’s good, I’m-”

“Aziraphale?” 

Both of them look up at the voice. It’s Gabriel. Again. Horrifically. Crowley hisses quietly at him.

“What’s that slimy thing doing in your shop?” Gabriel demands, grimacing uncomfortably.

“Gabriel. Hello. Well, first of all, snakes are not slimy. I have some books on herpetology, if you’re-”

“It’s going to scare away customers,” Gabriel insists.

Crowley hisses at him again, more aggressively, and Aziraphale strokes the scales on his head again.

“You would think,” Aziraphale sighs, “but mostly they just want to pet the snake.”

“I highly doubt that. By why do you have it?”

“It’s, ah, Crowley’s snake. He’s asked me to watch them for a little while.”

“Shouldn’t it be in a cage?”

“They should not,” Aziraphale calmly but firmly insists, “they’re perfectly safe, and enjoying this.”

Crowley heroically keeps himself from nodding, and concentrates instead on glaring at Gabriel, one expression, at last, that his snake face is suited to. 

“Anyway, is there any particular reason you’re here?” Aziraphale asks, and he sounds a little tired.

Crowley is a little proud of him for not trying to be polite. It’s a start on the way to standing up for himself rather than meekly apologise for his failings in the presence of his absolute arsehole of a brother. Crowley tries to squeeze him reassuringly, but given he’s wrapped around his neck, he catches himself before accidentally trying to strangle Aziraphale.

“Well, Bee told me to…” Gabriel looks uncomfortable, like he’s trying quite hard not to vomit, “that I should apologise to Crowley. So, uh, tell him that, will you?”

Crowley feels oddly touched by that. Not Gabriel’s complete lack of an actual apology, but at the fact that Bee actually cares enough about his feelings to tell her awful boyfriend off and making him come here, even if he puts as little effort into it as is humanly possible.

“That you feel like you should apologise but aren’t going to?” Aziraphale asks, his tone perfectly pleasant, but the bastardry so evident and lovely and validating.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Gabriel insists, “just make me sound good.”

After he has left, Crowley bumps his face into Aziraphale’s face, his serpentine version of a kiss, and slithers down to the floor and into the back room and changes into something with more limbs and the ability to kiss Aziraphale, which, at this point, is the main advantage of a human form. He takes the time to make both of them a cup of tea before returning out into the shop proper.

“Thank you,” he tells Aziraphale, kissing his cheek and setting the angel wig mug down next to the book he’s working on repairing.

“I am sorry Gabriel is so- so disrespectful to you, my dear.”

Crowley shrugs.

“He is, yeah, but that’s hardly your fault. Just grateful you’re standing up for me. And hope you can do that for yourself too. You know, he’s not nice to you. And just because he’s your brother and you care about him doesn’t mean you have to let him treat you this way, you know. You too are worth being treated with respect.”

“I- yes. I suppose. But it’s not easy.”

“I know.”

-

“So how are you religious? Never seen you, you know, go to church, pray, even wear a cross?”

They are in the back room of the bookshop, having both been too lazy to actually go upstairs. Crowley had brought wine, and they are nearly through the bottle now. Aziraphale sits in his cosy old armchair, all properly, the alcohol having injected just a hint of a slouch into his posture, whilst Crowley lies draped across the sofa, which isn’t quite long enough for him, with a wine glass balancing on his chest. A record of something classical plays softly in the background.

“Well, I think that God doesn’t care about what rituals we follow, those are all things humans have made up. I think she cares about how we live our lives, that we try to do good.”

“Her?” Crowley asks, turning his head to look at Aziraphale.

“Her,” Aziraphale agrees.

“I like that.”

“I thought you might. And I was raised, of course, with- with all the rules and rituals, but God and the church are two very different things. And me sort of… breaking with everything, part of that was deciding what to believe, what parts I actually valued. And that is the idea of a god who cares for us, and has a plan for our lives, as ineffable as it might be.”

“Ineffable,” Crowley says.

“There was an attempt,” he adds, “with me too. Brief. I wasn’t very good at religion, I think. Asked too many difficult questions. Had too much feedback for god. I mean, Jesus seems like he was a good lad, right, nice Jewish man who had some sensible thoughts about being nice to each others, treating people with respect even if they’re less fortunate than you, eat the rich, raise the dead. Good stuff. The necromancy’s a bit odd, but I don’t mind that. But the god who wants you to be willing to sacrifice your child to prove you believe, or who tortures someone for a bet? Damns humanity for curiosity? Not about that shit, personally.”

“No, I understand that,” Aziraphale says, and tops up his glass with the remainder of the bottle, “I think it’s important to be aware that all religious texts are written by humans. And in the case of Christianity, at least, edited by church councils who put together a narrative that supports them, and so much of the history of the church is political.”

“True,” Crowley agrees, “I think if I believed in anything I would agree with you. Though my favourites have always been, well. Quite predictable, I suppose. Quetzalcoatl, Jormungand, Thermoutis, Medusa… Though not all of those are gods.”

Aziraphale laughs, soft and gentle and adorable.

“Those do seem more in line with your aesthetic,” Aziraphale agrees.

“What about other religions, then?” Crowley asks, grateful that Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind his questioning, doesn’t seem to take it the wrong way.

“Different approaches to the same concept. Similar roots. They all want to believe in something that gives them hope, gives them a feeling of control over an existence that is fundamentally confusing and frightening. And we just do that in slightly different ways, with different stories and rituals.”

“Right,” agrees Crowley, “that makes sense. Still, prefer the polytheistic ones, me. Better stories. Infallible gods are less fun than Zeus fucking everything in his path or Thor dressing in drag to get his hammer back.”

Aziraphale’s smile is indulgent and a little amused.

“And, and, they’re less black and white. Not one perfect being looking down on us, just a bunch of argumentative idiots with superpowers looking down on us. Bit reassuring. Explains all the bad things that happen. Earthquakes happen because a snake drips poison into Loki’s mouth and Sigyn had to go empty the poison bowl because Loki was a dick one too many times. But different needs in different times, I guess.”

The grainy music coming from the gramophone comes to a halt, and Aziraphale gets up to turn the record to the other side. Crowley rolls to his side, setting his empty glass down on the floor, and watches him. Old fashion and absolutely ridiculous and, at this point, the love of Crowley’s life. He turns to face him.

“What?”

“I… like you. Like you lots, Angel,” Crowley says, like an idiot, because he just barely kept himself from telling him he loves him.

“Ah, well, I’m glad. And I like you too, my dear.”

He bends down to kiss Crowley’s cheek, and it might be the wine but Crowley is pretty sure his skeleton has turned into jelly. Then he lifts up Crowley’s legs, sitting down on the sofa and draping them over his lap. Crowley looks up at him with so much fondness, so much love that he thinks maybe it’s visible. Like his heart beating so hard you can see it through his chest, his pupils going heart shaped.

“I think,” he says, attempting to distract himself and continue the conversation and failing, “that if any of that stuff is real, you’re an angel. Human shaped and all, not a burning wheel covered in eyes and wielding burning swords, but… A sort of shining being of goodness.”

“You’re very charming my dear, but I’m afraid I don’t understand your insistence on this.”

“You’re… Good,” Crowley replies intelligently, and wonders if having half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach is, perhaps, not the best way to sound convincing, “and you make me want to be better. To be. Uh. More like you, I suppose. Or worthy of you. Don’t know. That sounds weird. Is there more wine?”

“There is indeed more wine,” Aziraphale confirms with an amused smile, “and I am glad I make you want to be better, though I think you are a better person than you think you are, serpentine stalking aside.”

Crowley groans, grabbing a decorative cushion that looks like it was taken from someone’s great grandmother’s sitting room and placing it over his face. Aziraphale laughs, and takes one of Crowley’s hands in his. He briefly considers turning into a snake, because serpentine brains are not meant for embarrassment, but he resists. That’s not the responsible think to do, and he has earned Aziraphale’s gentle teasing, even though it fills him with guilt.

“’M sorry,” he mutters.

“I know. It’s all right. It was strange, and quite upsetting, but I do recognise that without it we would perhaps not have gotten together. And I think, in retrospect, that it was worth it. So long as I know that you are here and are you, whatever that you may look like.”

“Again,” Crowley repeats, still from under the cushion, “you are too good. Angelic. Perfect. And I love you.”

There is a moment of silence before Crowley realises what he’s said.

“Shit,” he says, and on pure instinct shifts into his snake shape, and slithers quickly down from the sofa and out into the bookshop.

“Crowley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a quick fic to work out an idea but nope. It's past 60k and 30 chapters and I still have no idea what the overarching story is. This is like the fifth time this has happened in this extended fandom now. Oops.


	31. A Monologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They try to talk about Crowley's confession.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls out again, and Crowley can hear his footsteps getting closer, the creak of the ancient wooden floorboards.

He is curled up under a shelf in the middle of the shop, his head tucked under part of his very long torso. Stupid idiot. Stupid stupid fucking snake. Why did he say that out loud? He’s not that drunk, he shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have made Aziraphale uncomfortable, shouldn’t keep trying to make this relationship be more than it is.

“Look, I’ll assume you can hear me,” Aziraphale says.

He sits down on the floor, leaning against a bookshelf. Crowley slithers to the edge, so he can see him, mostly a silhouette in the darkness. He feels terrible, both for what he said and for running away. Well, slithering away. Close enough.

“You don’t have to run away, Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, and oh, he does sound tired, and Crowley flinches.

“It’s all right. And I- I don’t know. I know you, ah, started liking me first, and you do- Well, you go too fast for me, Crowley, you do. But that doesn’t mean I won’t eventually catch up. And- And I am in love with you. And I think there is a good chance I will love you, but I’m not entirely sure that I do yet. And please, my dear, do focus on the yet, will you? I am… slower than you, I fear, more worried about throwing myself into things. And I am sorry I can’t tell you the same, not right now, but you don’t have to hide from me, my dear sweet serpent.”

Fortunately for Crowley, snakes are physically unable to cry. Because he feels as if he might, otherwise, overwhelmed as he feels. Ought he to return to Aziraphale? Probably.

“I care for you deeply, though, Crowley, I can say as much as that. And I do hope you can be patient with me. You have been, so much, so far, with so many things, and please know that I appreciate that. I am so grateful that you care for me enough to give me time.”

If Aziraphale’s goal is to avoid further confessions of undying love, he’s doing a pretty bad job, Crowley thinks. He uncoils himself and winds his way over to Aziraphale, curling up and raising the front of himself up to look up at Aziraphale. Again, the light emanating from the back room illuminates him from behind, turning his bright hair into a halo, making him look even more angelic and beautiful than normal.

“Oh, there you are, my dear. Are you going to turn back?”

Crowley hesitates, then shakes his head, trying to infuse apology into the movement.

“Oh. Well, that’s all right. Will you come here, then?” he asks, and reaches down his arm.

Crowley nods, curling himself around Aziraphale’s arm, moving up until he is able to nudge his snout into Aziraphale’s cheek, forked tongue flicking out to lick at soft warm skin, to take in the comforting and lovely scent of him. 

“Will you stay?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley settles around his neck, fighting the loosened bow-tie until he gains access to the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin, settling his long body around his neck, head resting at the hollow of his throat.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he says, walking back into the back room and turning off the lights.

He picks up and folds Crowley’s abandoned clothes, and retreats up to the flat above. Gently, carefully, he deposits Crowley on the bed, where he hisses in protest at being cruelly abandoned in the cold sheets.

“I’m sorry my dear, I will be back in a minute.”

Crowley attempts to make sad puppy dog eyes, but without eyelids it is difficult to achieve. Aziraphale disappears for a few minutes, and Crowley can hear vague noises of running water and soft footsteps. He moves up to curl up as tight as he can on Aziraphale’s pillow, trying to conserve whatever heat he has, breathing in the lingering scent of his love.

“Oh, my dear, is it terribly cold?” Aziraphale asks when he returns, and Crowley nods emphatically.

Aziraphale laughs, but very softly. He gently lifts Crowley into his hands before getting into the bed, settling Crowley high on his chest.

“Is this better?”

Crowley nods, and slithers further down, to settle on Aziraphale’s belly, where it is soft and warm and perfect. He feels Aziraphale tense a little, the muscles underneath him shifting, and Crowley has the worrying idea that he is making Aziraphale uncomfortable. But why would he be? He isn’t a very heavy snake. Unless… Unless it means that it’s a part of Aziraphale’s body that he isn’t comfortable with. Well. In that case, that’s something Crowley is going to have to try to remedy. He starts pressing tiny, serpentine kisses to the skin there. It is soft, and it is perfect, and when he feels emotionally composed enough to be human shaped again he will inform Aziraphale of this.

Eventually Aziraphale relaxes, and a hand comes down to rest over part of Crowley’s coils like a warm, solid blanket. Crowley curls part of his short tail around Aziraphale’s little finger, and he feels a soft breath go through Aziraphale.

“Good night, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little mini chapter because the next bit doesn't quite fit.


	32. Unexpected Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley meets an old friend, and Aziraphale might have discovered a new kink.

“Crowley?” asks Aziraphale, and Crowley jumps, startled.

“Are you quite all right, my dear?” Aziraphale continues, “you have been pretending to shelve those two books for nearly fifteen minutes right now, and while you know I greatly approve that sort of inefficiency, I do wonder why.”

“Shhh.”

It sounds just a little bit like a hiss. Crowley glances at Aziraphale briefly. He looks more mildly curious than worried, and there is a stray drop of cocoa staining his lips. Crowley briefly debates licking it off. But no. He’s got more important things going on.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale whispers loudly, leaning around the shelf Crowley is looking past.

“Trying to see if I recognise this kid,” Crowley whispers back, nodding towards the teenager in question.

It’s a boy with shoulder length dark hair, wearing a large chunky pair of headphones, likely making the whispering pointless. He’s got a book spread open on a table and a small and very expensive looking laptop balanced on his knees. 

“You do,” Aziraphale replies in an exaggerated whisper, “he comes here a lot.”

“No,” Crowley disagrees, now in a normal voice, if still reasonably quiet, “not from here, I mean-”

He makes a vague noise, accompanied by an explanatory gesture which likely means nothing to Aziraphale.

“Why don’t you just ask, then?” Aziraphale suggests, as if trying to be reasonable.

“I can’t just _ask_ ,” Crowley protests.

“Hey, this is going to sound weird if I’m wrong, but is your name Warlock?” Crowley finds himself asking exactly three minutes later, because evidently Aziraphale can persuade him to do anything.

The kid, who, if Crowley’s suspicions are right, must be about sixteen or seventeen, looks up at him and frowns.

“Uh, yeah? How’d you know?”

There is a little more British creeping into the American accent than there used to be, but it’s enough to almost entirely confirm Crowley’s suspicions. He looks a lot different, but a decade plus will do that to a child. Still. The face is similar. The voice too, although naturally it has gotten deeper.

“Warlock Dowling?” Crowley specifies, and pushes his sunglasses up into his hair.

“Yeah,” Warlock confirms, eyes zeroing in on the side of Crowley’s face with the tattoo.

“Wait, nanny?” the kid adds, eyes widening.

“Yep,” Crowley confirms, grinning, “thought I recognised you.”  
Aziraphale makes a confused noise from a little ways away where he is unsubtly eavesdropping, just holding a book he isn’t even looking at. 

“But are- weren’t you-”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, “was presenting a bit more feminine at the time. Thought it fit the job. Was really into the sort of goth Mary Poppins vibe. It was, in my defence, the late 2000s.”

“I was going to say weren’t you Scottish?” Warlock asks, an eyebrow raised.

“I am,” Crowley insists in his solidly English accent, “well. Half Scottish, anyway. Thought they might be more likely to hire me. Don’t know. I was making some weird decisions back then.”

Aziraphale approaches the two of them, having given up his pretence of not listening.

“Hey Mister Fell,” Warlock says, because evidently he does know Aziraphale, who has failed to inform him of this.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear,” he begins, and Crowley snorts.

“Yeah.”

“You used to be this boy’s nanny?”

“Yep,” Crowley confirms again, “what like, twelve years ago or so?”

“Uh,” says Warlock, “I guess? I was pretty small.”

“Yeah. How is. Err. How have you been almost the entirety of your life?”

“Uh,” Warlock replies.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Daft adult question. Would’ve thought you lot moved back to America by now, really.”

“Nah,” Warlock says, “Still here. How are you- Why are you here?”

“Boyfriend owns this shop,” Crowley says, nodding in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, who has seemingly picked up on how painfully awkwardly this is going, “speaking of, I am going to make some tea. Would you like some too, young man?”

“Uh. Sure?”

And with a satisfied little nod he wanders off.

“You’re dating Mister Fell?” Warlock asks, closing his laptop and pressing a button on his headphones, the new universal symbol of hey I am ready to fully commit to this conversation now.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, not quite able to keep a smile from his face.

Warlock makes the appropriate ew gross face all teenagers make at the idea of proper adults dating, as Crowley finds a chair and drags it closer.

“I’m not interrupting you doing anything important?”

“Nah. Dumb essay. Have a week more.”

He seems, if anything, glad of the excuse for a break. Watches Crowley for a moment, as if critically.

“Doesn’t really seem like your type.”

“Who, Aziraphale? What makes you say that?”

The boy shrugs.

“He’s all… like a nerdier English teacher. Like a history teacher and an anti social librarian had an even nerdier kid. And you’re, I mean. You taught me like satanic nursery rhymes and stuff. You had a pet snake.”

“Fair, yeah. Bit of opposite aesthetics. But he’s just… He’s really nice.”

“He once refused to let me in until I finished my coffee outside,” Warlock counters, “in the rain.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees with a grin, “he’s got terrible customer service. Part of the appeal.”

“You’re weird,” Warlock announces.

“Yeah, I’ve been told.”

There is both so much he recognises in the boy, and so much that is just a heavy layer of awkward teenaged moodiness. Somehow the same essence, but strangely grown up and childish all at the same time. But there is an upside down pentagram sticker on Warlock’s laptop, and it’s good to see that some of Crowley’s influence has lasted. He’s got some casual goth vibes going on, which Crowley also attributes to his own inspiration.

“Are you… Are you okay?” Crowley asks, “don’t mean to pry, but you know. There’s a reason your mum and dad hired me. I mean, aside from my charm and coolness, I assume. And then after a year and a half decided you were old enough not to need me any more, but I- It didn’t seem like they had quite enough time for you, is all I mean.”

“Wait,” Warlock says, frowning, “I thought you were there for several years?”

“Mm, nah, was a year contract and a half, I’m pretty sure. Which was less than I’d expected. But time feels longer when you’re little. Question still stands, though.”

Warlock hesitates, shifting his head so his hair falls in front of his face a bit.

“I missed you. For… a little bit.”

“Yeah? Me too. Best child I nannied, definitely.”

“Of how many?”

“Only one. But still.”

“Wait, so that’s not what you do?”

“Not any more. I’m in tech, now. Well, sales, really. But I sell tech. I just had a long period of not knowing what to do, had a lot of different jobs. And looking after you came with a place to live, which was nice at the time. Did not know what I was doing at all, though. You’d think the American ambassador would be more thorough, but apparently not.”

“Yeah. Probably made an employee do it. Still. I think I’ve turned out… fine.”

“You have,” Crowley agrees, “at least based on this ten minute interaction and nothing else. And you come to a weird old bookshop to do homework, which is, well. Pretty nerdy of you.”

Warlock shrugs, which appears to be his go to response. Just then, an approaching clattering heralds the arrival of Aziraphale carrying a very fancy old tray with a trio of steaming cups. 

“Here you go, my boy,” he says, offering one to Warlock.

“Thanks, Mister Fell.”

The boy is weirdly polite, but perhaps it’s the professorial nature Aziraphale exudes. Or the librarian vibes, like someone who will aggressively shush you. Which is probably a fair assumption. 

-

Crowley lies curled around Aziraphale’s shoulders, dozing as he closes the shop for the night. It’s a Friday, and he’s closed late, and they’re both tired, fully intending to do as little as humanly (and serpentinely) possible the following day. But it’s nearing exam season, and Aziraphale does want to give the youths a place to study where they are, if anything, highly discouraged from spending any money. And now, apparently, that Warlock is one of them, Crowley finds himself agreeing. Although, child of a diplomat, the boy’s probably filthy rich. It has been more than a decade since he looked after him, but he still finds himself quite protective of him, though he’s probably old enough to deal with scraped knees and scary bugs on his own these days.

“You know, I wouldn’t have expected child care to be something you did,” Aziraphale remarks once Crowley is human and sprawled across his sofa, a half empty wine glass dangling precariously from his hand.

There are the remains of their dinner on the coffee table, and a nearly empty little bowl of chocolate truffles, which have left Aziraphale’s lips dusted with cocoa. Crowley suspects kissing it away is the best way to enjoy that particular treat.

“Did a lot of stuff,” Crowley says, running his free hand through his hair, “was young. Well, younger than now, anyway. Haven’t been in a grey dull office trying to sell stuff forever. A while, yeah, but not forever. Worked in a café, bunch of shops, was a tattoo apprentice for a bit until they realised I was rubbish at drawing, which apparently is an essential. Lots of meaningless office temp stuff. Didn’t like much of it. Didn’t particularly like being a nanny, but I liked Warlock. Good lad. Bit less spoiled than you’d expect.”

“It sounds almost exciting,” Aziraphale muses, draining his glass.

“It’s not,” Crowley promises, “just a lot of things. Lots of doing things, but for not enough money. Taking care of Warlock was a bit different, though. Got to live in a mansion, which was fun. Felt very fancy, that. Had a torrid affair with the gardener. Hmm. Maybe that’s why they let me go. Don’t know. They were,” he adds, seeing Aziraphale’s face, “far less attractive than you, promise.”

Aziraphale sputters, looks about to argue. Crowley picks himself up and in a fluid motion snakes his way over to Aziraphale, kissing the mild outrage from his lips, along with a hint of cocoa. 

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale accuses, though his deep blush and hint of a smile takes away from it somewhat.

“Guilty as charged,” Crowley agrees.

He settles on the arm rest of Aziraphale’s chair, one arm draped across his shoulders. Aziraphale looks up at him with a soft smile. Crowley really very loves him so incredibly much. And he’s perfectly happy to wait for Aziraphale to love him back, however much time he needs. It had hurt a bit, that conversation. To hear Aziraphale so decidedly knowing that he doesn’t love him back, but Crowley is trying to hard to do as he suggested. To focus on the yet. To be happy with what they have, and accept that he is more prone to fully throwing himself into things, relationships included, than Aziraphale is. That he is more cautious.

“I can’t help but wonder what you were like then,” Aziraphale muses, looking up at Crowley through golden lashes.

“Oh?”

“I imagine some sort of gothic Mary Poppins,” he continues, and Crowley laughs.

“Yeah? That the sort of look you’re into, hmm?”

“Well, I don’t know. I would have to see it in person, I think.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“There’s a fetish shop a few minutes away, I’m sure we can sort something out.”

“Oh good lord,” Aziraphale exclaims, half mortification half amusement.

“Only if you want to, Angel. Can see if I can find some old photos of me from back then. Wasn’t quite so old fashioned as you’re imagining, I’m afraid, but I have to say, my hair was impeccable. Gotten way too lazy to pull that sort of thing off these days.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I quite like it the way it is, I think,” Aziraphale murmurs, and reaches up to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

He pulls on it, just a little, and oh, Crowley likes that. Really likes that, it turns out, and he slides down into Aziraphale’s lap fully, suddenly less tired than he had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intense struggle to write this for some reason, but it has reminded me I want to continue my fic about Aziraphale and Crowley while they're watching Warlock accidentally getting magicked humanish. I have strong feelings about Warlock being a much more large part of their life than Adam for like. Time reasons, and the priorities regarding whom they become the Cool Uncles (or cool aunts or whatever the gender neutral term for that is in english) to.


	33. Snex, or; the reproductive habits of elongated legless carnivorous reptiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes an effort to make Aziraphale see himself the way Crowley does

It is a bright Sunday morning, and Crowley, to his absolute delight, gets to wake up next to Aziraphale. He even wakes up first, for a change, and gets to watch how lovely and peaceful Aziraphale looks. The sun shines in through the window in the slanted roof, making his white blonde hair shine with the softest golden light. Those soft lips are just slightly parted. He sleeps, it turns out, like a person in a drawing, all on his back, his hands folded over the edge of the duvet on his chest. Even in sleep so proper. It makes making a little bit of a mess of him just that much more satisfying.

Crowley edges closer, careful not to disturb him, until he can press his chest to Aziraphale’s side, and rest and hand over his clasped ones. Aziraphale stirs, but doesn’t move. Fuck, Crowley loves him so terribly much. The feeling is deep and overwhelming, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, yet it carries with it such an instinct to do something, anything, to let Aziraphale know. Only he does, of course. And Crowley doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable any more than he already has, he doesn’t deserve that. So he’ll stick, for the moment, to trying his very hardest to communicate it telepathically. Just think it really loud at him. Hope he understands. Hope it rubs off on him, maybe. Not that Crowley is anywhere near as worthy of love as Aziraphale, but hey, he’s gotten lucky so far, he might still, and who is he to argue?

Aziraphale blinks, slowly, emerging from sleep calmly and gracefully, somehow managing not to look like a disaster. Perhaps it’s the hair. Got to be easier when it’s just short and fluffy. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t move about quite so much, occasionally even shape shifting in his sleep. His eye lashes are golden in this light, and that’s ridiculous and also perfect and just as it should be. His eyes are too, almost, shades of blue and gold glinting in the light. They light up as they turn towards Crowley, and the poor serpent’s heart is close to exploding.

“Good morning.”

Crowley takes a breath and has to physically restrain himself from confessing his love again. He wonders whether he will wake up this happy every time Aziraphale is there. Probably not, because they have, on occasion, shared a couple of bottles of wine and woken up to the realisation that their bodies aren’t quite up to that sort of thing any more. But being grumpy and a bit hangover with Aziraphale is better than the version where he’s alone. Even if he doesn’t really want this absolute angel of a man to have to see him like that.

“Morning,” he mumbles, cutting of his internal rambling.

Aziraphale’s hands unwind and curl around Crowley’s, bringing it up to his face and kissing it. 

“Sleep well?”

“Mm. Yep. You?”

“I did. I did, at one point, wake up with a snake sleeping on my chest. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Nope. Totally innocent, me. Got to have been another one.”

Aziraphale’s face scrunches up absolutely adorably when he smiles. He turns onto his side and kisses Crowley, light and soft and sweet. Crowley lets himself melt into it, his hand finding its way first to Aziraphale’s cheek, then up into his hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue snaking its way into Aziraphale’s mouth. He presses his body against Aziraphale, one of his arms going numb underneath him, but he’s used to doing things without limbs, so that’s no problem.

Aziraphale pulls back, just a little, his lips reddened and slightly swollen. Crowley chases him, presses a quick little kiss to his lips, then moving back enough to look into his beautiful eyes. 

“You know, I could swear that your tongue is longer than a human one usually is.”

“Might be,” Crowley says, shrugging one shoulder.

“Y’know, I thought about getting it bifurcated. Be a bit more snakey and stuff.”

“I- how?”

“You know, that body modification where people have the tip of their tongue split, like a reptile. And you can move the pieces separately. It’s pretty cool.”

“It sounds upsetting,” Aziraphale says, eyes wide.

“Yeah. Well, I though it might be a bit too on the nose. Or snout. Whatever. Also the idea of having a massive open wound in my mouth for ages sounded pretty unpleasant. One snake tongue might be enough.”

“Oh dear, yes, a good decision, I think. I like it the way it is. Not, of course, that your snake tongue isn’t lovely. But not for this kind of kissing, I think.”

“Yeah. Keeping the snake thing out of the… more actively romantic stuff, probably good.”

Aziraphale nods, sagely, and his eyes are just a little dark, a little hooded. It’s a good look for him.

“You know,” he adds thoughtfully, “I’ve been reading up on snakes.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. I thought seeing as it’s such a significant part of you, I ought to educate myself a little.”

“Aww, that’s sweet. And very you.”

“And I did get to the part about reproductive behaviour.”

“Ah. Yes. I think I know which bit you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t realise, you see, that snakes were quite so, ah, generously equipped.”

“Two cocks, yep. I read that when I was a teenager, but. Sorry to disappoint. I worked out, at one point, that my snake body is, uh. Less male? Female? Don’t know that I really have a gender as a snake. Doesn’t really feel necessary. So I’ve just got the one, I’m afraid, not three. A devastating blow to thirteen year old me, believe me.”

Aziraphale laughs, soft and gentle and not mocking at all.

“Is that why, you think? I mean, your…”

“Gender identity? Don’t know. Maybe. Don’t think it’s the reason why, but it doesn’t hurt. Part of it, maybe. Weirdly validating, though, much as it doesn’t matter. Not as if it’s a part of me I’ll ever use.”

“No?”

Crowley grimaces.

“Nah. Snake body isn’t into humans, because, obviously, and human brain isn’t into snakes. Also they don’t really get horny outside of breeding season, I think. Don’t know. Depends on the species, and I don’t know which I am, so. Anyway. Best to avoid, anyway. Wouldn’t want to end up laying a bunch of eggs. Not ready for that sort of responsibility.”

“Hmm. You’re right, I think. Probably better to adopt.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, and Aziraphale laughs.

“No? Don’t want little tiny snake babies?”

Crowley shudders.

“Think I’m good with house plants. Having a pet snake was a surprisingly weird experience. Like having one of those too human monkeys that can learn sign language, I think. Too close. Eugh. Nope. Snake plants, that’s my child of choice, snake-wise.”

“Those are lovely also,” Aziraphale allows.

“Would you want one? I’ve considered bringing you one. Not necessarily a snake plant, but something like it, something that thrives in a dry environment. To keep your books company downstairs. Didn’t know if you’d want it. Didn’t want to bring you an obligation. Though, to be fair, they only need water once a month, so they’re fairly low maintenance.”

Aziraphale smiles like a sun, or like a star, even brighter. It does things to Crowley’s heart. To other parts of him too.

“I would love to have one of your plants live with me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can’t help but read into that.

He surges forth, kissing Aziraphale once more, deep and passionate and this is a normal reaction to someone accepting the premise of a gift, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Aziraphale is kissing him back, and that when Crowley shifts his hips a bit his by now definitely hard dick brushes against Aziraphale’s, which feels like it’s getting there too.

“I’ll let you move more plants to my shop if that’s your reaction,” Aziraphale murmurs, with the tiniest little smug smirk.

Crowley kisses him again, not quite able to keep a stupid grin off his face. Aziraphale’s hand is brushing down his side, displacing Crowley’s t-shirt a bit. Crowley closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Feels soft fingers brushing over his bare skin and shivers.

“Yeah,” he breathes, too distracted to think of anything but those few burning hot points of contact.

He snakes a hand underneath the hem of Aziraphale’s pyjama shirt, feeling the soft skin, but when he starts to push it up, Aziraphale tenses.

“You okay?” Crowley asks, taking a break from being unbearably horny and blinded by love to be concerned.

“Of course,” Aziraphale replies, a little too quickly.

Crowley turns, and starts, slowly and deliberately, to unbutton Aziraphale’s shirt. He squirms, uncomfortably.

“Is there,” Crowley asks, “any reason why you don’t want me to see you without clothes?”

He tries to sound as gentle and accepting as he can, and his fingers keep working. Aziraphale looks anywhere but at Crowley’s face.

“I- it’s simply that… That there is a very long time since anyone saw me quite so…”

“Vulnerable?”

“I suppose. And I don’t- You’re so-”

“So what, Angel? I can promise you that I will adore what I see.”

He looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, trying very hard to communicate his absolute love and acceptance of everything Aziraphale is, all parts of him. He pushes the shirt open just enough that he can lean in and press a kiss to his chest. He wants to argue that it’s not as if he’s not familiar with the shape of him, anyway, that he is familiar with the contours of his body, that the clothes don’t cover as much as he thinks it does. But taking away the thing that makes him feel safe is probably not what’s going to help here.

“I… Are you sure?”

“Extremely, Angel. I promise you, I am so very much into everything that you are. You’re beautiful, and sexy, and perfect, and unless you have like a giant tattoo on your belly that says I hate snakes in giant letters, I can promise you nothing about you can make me less into you.”

Aziraphale laughs. Good.

“No such thing, my dear.”

“Good! Then, please, will you trust me?”

Aziraphale hesitates.

“I promise you, everyone and everything that might have made you feel less than ecstatic about your body, the way you look, are wrong, and awful, and I will personally punch them in the face,” he adds, with a little grin.

Aziraphale smiles, hesitates for another moment, and then nods. Crowley kisses him, and then slowly pushes the pyjama shirt off his shoulders. It reveals pale skin, a chest covered in soft curling hair, the same colour as his hair. The contours of him are soft, gentle. His chest curves, his stomach swells, and everything about him is perfect. Crowley smooths his hands over his chest, down his sides. There are little stretch marks littering his sides, and Crowley thinks they look lovely, adding visual interest. He looks up again, at the worry in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Perfect,” he reassures him, “lovely. Beautiful. Angelic.”

He kisses him again, pressing himself against that soft and beautiful and perfect body. Well, one part of it is still decidedly not soft, which is good. He kisses down Aziraphale’s jaw, down his throat, as he wraps his hand around him, giving a few languid strokes. Aziraphale makes a little noise in his throat.

“Will you let me show you just what your body does to me?” Crowley asks, and immediately regretting his phrasing a little, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice.

“I- yes,” he breathes, his hands on Crowley, now, ineffectually tugging at his t-shirt.

Crowley presses kisses all the way down Aziraphale’s chest, stopping to tug at a nipple with his teeth, then pressing soothing kisses to it. Down over his soft stomach, which is perfect too. He gets to the edge of his pyjama bottoms, and kisses the skin just over the rim of fabric, before pulling that down too, tossing the fabric to the floor. Aziraphale protests weakly, but Crowley takes his beautiful thick cock into his mouth, and he seems to forget his problems after that.

Crowley pulls off, pressing a kiss to the tip, and undresses himself. Ought to be fair, after all. He hasn’t disliked his body much, not really. He had, at one time, thought that he might like to have more muscles, but he’s been perfectly happy with how he looks for a while. Which makes him lucky, he knows. He’s got a tall, lanky body, and that seems right for a snake. He hopes he can get Aziraphale to feel the same way. Not necessary being ecstatically happy with it, but being comfortable in it. Accept that it can be beautiful and desired.

“Look, I was wondering…” he begins, running a hand through his hair, quite self consciously. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale asks, a little breathless.

“I think I would quite like to know what you feel like inside me,” Crowley continues, “if you- I mean. If you want that? I don’t know what your preference is. We could do the other way round too, if you like. Or not at all. Doesn’t matter to me. Don’t really have a preference, you know. Bisexual, shape shifter, genderfluid, not good at picking one thing, me.”

He’s rambling a little, he can tell, from Aziraphale’s amused smile.

“I do think that sounds lovely,” Aziraphale says, “but I am afraid it has been a terribly long time since last I did this.”

“Oh, yeah, no, that’s fine,” Crowley hurriedly reassures him, “I’ll be on top, yeah? Do all the hard work, promise. I just… I want you inside me.”

Aziraphale pushes himself up into a sitting position, and pulls Crowley into a kiss.

“There is lube in the night stand, I think, and- oh dear. I don’t believe I have any condoms. Not that, of course, I suspect you of having anything, but-”

“Oh, no worries. I have some. Bit presumptuous of me, maybe, but I’ve kept some in my jacket for. Uh. A normal amount of time.”

Since the first time they met, perhaps, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that detail. He scrambles off the bed and out into the hallway to get it. Goes by the bathroom too, gets a wash-cloth and wets it. Just so they don’t have to get up immediately after. 

“Do you want me to-”

“No, ‘s fine, I’ll do it myself. Just, you know. Watch? Is that weird? Might be weird. Been a little while for me too.”

Crowley pours some of the slippery lube onto his fingers, and starts to work himself open. It always looks a little awkward, what with the angle, but he has long arms, and that helps. He goes slow, because it’s been a while since he did this, even with toys. Much as he has fantasised about this, about Aziraphale inside of him, he hasn’t really played out the fantasy properly.

Aziraphale is holding a pillow in front of his stomach, which makes Crowley sad, but he’s not about to take away whatever makes Aziraphale slightly more comfortable.

Aziraphale’s cock, when Crowley slowly sinks down onto it, feels perfect. There is a nearly painful stretch, yes, there always is after a while, but it feels perfect. Feels right. Aziraphale makes a soft noise, a little gasp, as he feels Crowley’s muscles twitch around him, adjusting. Crowley rests his hands against Aziraphale’s shoulders. He is halfway sitting up, back resting against the slope of pillows and cushions they have piled against the wall. Crowley thought this might make him a little less self conscious, and also there is easier access to kissing, which is a plus.

He starts to move, undulating his hips, rising up and sinking down, starting slow. Letting himself get used to the feeling. Aziraphale’s hands are on Crowley’s hips, seemingly struggling not to move too much, to let Crowley decide the pace. Crowley leans in to kiss him, and feels Aziraphale thrust up into him. Perfect.

“You feel wonderful,” Aziraphale murmurs into his mouth, “perfect.”

Crowley’s cock twitches, and he starts to move slightly faster, attempting to angle himself so he hits his prostate. He closes his eyes, concentrating, and feels soft fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him not quite in time with his own movements.

It doesn’t take him all that long to come. Again, it has been a while, and it’s _Aziraphale_ inside him, around whom he clenches, not quite able to stop himself from spurting all over Aziraphale’s hand and stomach. But his angel follows not long after, twitching and pulsing and stilling inside him. 

Crowley leans his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder, not quite ready to move for a moment yet, wanting to enjoy the blissful boneless feeling for a little longer. 

“Was good,” he tells Aziraphale, “yeah?”

“Oh, very. Very good.”

Aziraphale sounds a little out of breath, gratifyingly. He wraps his arms around Crowley, warm and comforting and safe and perfect. He steels himself, and then eases himself off of Aziraphale. Pulls off the condom and ties it off, tossing it into the bin, and then grabs the wet cloth, wiping the cum off them. Then he sinks down into the pillows next to Aziraphale, resting his head in the crook of his neck.

“I can’t promise that I will… Feel better about myself, feel comfortable quite yet,” Aziraphale tells him, “but you help.”

“All I can ask,” Crowley tells him and kisses his neck. 

Aziraphale has pulled the duvet up over them, covering everything below his chest, but he doesn’t complain or tense up when Crowley wraps an arm around his middle, so he counts that as a win. He feels good, feels perfectly happy and comfortable.

“Rest a little while longer and then go out somewhere, get breakfast?” Crowley suggests.

“That sounds lovely.”

The sun has moved on a little, now, no longer shining directly in, but the warmth of it lingers still, and the light outside is bright and golden. Shining and promising a light and warm day.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to write more of this fic, I promise, I just started a new good omens extended universe fic I'm excited about so here is a doodly filler chapter.


	35. Plant Based Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley keeps trying to win Aziraphale over, not realising he has done so already

Crowley comes into the shop just a short while before closing, something hidden under his coat, hissing, actually hissing, at a leaving customer who bumps into him. Aziraphale can’t quite help his fond smile at the ridiculous man.

“Angel,” Crowley announces, “here.”

He produces a very tall plant from beneath his coat, setting it carefully down on the counter. It is, Aziraphale thinks, a snake plant, all tall sharp leaves in three shades of green, set in a pot glazed in white with golden and black specks.

“Oh, it’s- it’s lovely!”

“Yeah?” Crowley says, sounding hopeful, then trying to play it off by fixing his hair, “wanted to get you one. Which, well, this one’s not new, it used to live at mine. Didn’t want to get you one from a shop that’s not learnt how to behave yet. I’ve had this one for, I think two years? It’s been pretty good so far. Kept green and strong, no browned leaves.”

His insistence on talking about his plants as if they were somehow sentient is charming and confusing as always, and Aziraphale interrupts his rambling to kiss his cheek. This sends Crowley into a stuttering series of consonants, which is always deeply satisfying.

“You’ve got to be strict with it,” Crowley continues, though his voice has gone soft, “Think of it like a customer trying to buy a first edition. Be firm. Don’t accept any faults.”

“I will, my dear, I promise,” Aziraphale tells him, squeezing his hand, although this is a lie.

The plant is no doubt very sweet, to whatever degree a plant can be so, and he has every intent of treating it well. He adores Crowley, but the man does seem to be very harsh on his plants.

“Thank you so much,” he adds, reaching a hand up to pull Crowley into a soft kiss.

Crowley makes a soft, surprised noise into the kiss, before Aziraphale feels a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. 

“Ahem.”

It’s not even an actual clearing of the throat, it’s just an enunciation of the word ahem. Aziraphale turns, and sees a man holding a small stack of books.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“I’d like to pay, please,” the man says, politely enough, though he looks a little disapproving.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “no thank you.”

Crowley snickers. The man frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“Those aren’t for sale, I’m afraid.”

“...You haven’t even looked at the books.”

Aziraphale glances at the books. They’re definitely ones he would prefer not to part with.

“I’m quite familiar with my stock, thank you, and those are not for sale. If you would just leave them here, so I can re-shelve them.”

The man looks upset, and Crowley as if he hasn’t seen anything this delightful in a long time. Perhaps this is part of what is putting the man off. Aziraphale thinks, in that case, he might make Gabriel happy and hire Crowley to help make customers too uncomfortable to buy things. That’s what his brother wants, yes? Employees? Definitely. 

“This is- this is a shop.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees.

“But the books are not for sale.”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale confirms with a smile.

“...Right. Okay.”

It is always a joy to see the moment a customer realises they will not be allowed to get their way, when their face falls and they leave the books and slink out. And look, Aziraphale isn’t a bad person. Mostly not, at any rate, but he does allow himself to find satisfaction in this.

“You,” Crowley announces as they watch the customer leave, “are the worst shopkeeper I have ever seen. I love it.”

-

“I just- I don’t like it. I don’t think I like it any more.”

Crowley is stretched out across the too short sofa, baring his soul as if to an old timey psychoanalyst. The image is ruined only slightly by the mug of tea balanced on his chest and the fact that his head is resting against Aziraphale’s thigh.

“No? Can you not quit, then?”

“Quit?”

Crowley cranes his head to look up at Aziraphale incredulously. His sunglasses slides from his forehead down into the cushions below. 

“Can’t quit. What would I do? Been doing this the better part of a decade, Angel. Not that easy getting into a new field when you’re hurtling horrifyingly towards fifty.”

“But,” argues Aziraphale, “You said you’ve had so many different jobs. Surely that’s not an option that’s disappeared.”

“Well yeah. But I was in my thirties. More acceptable then. More than halfway through my forties, now. Getting old. Also, nowhere that’s anywhere I want to work is gonna pay me enough to keep my flat, keep living like I want.”

“So is it worth it, then? Staying?”

Crowley makes a noise, sighs, and barely succeeds at drinking some of his tea without spilling it all over himself. Rests his head back against Aziraphale’s leg and makes a pleased sound as Aziraphale runs his fingers through his hair.

“Don’t know. I thought I liked it but it’s just… Soulless. Just keep spending my days convincing people I don’t know to buy software I don’t care about. Don’t like my co-workers. Well, Bee’s all right, but Hastur and Ligur? The guys I actually share an office with? Absolute assholes. Terrible colleagues. Would drain the joy out of anything, those two.”

“But the pay is good?”

“But the pay is good. And my rent is, well. Size of the flat, the area? You can imagine.”

Aziraphale, who has lived in this bookshop for twenty five years, cannot, in fact, imagine, but he nods sagely anyway. It is very large and expensive looking, even if it isn’t to his personal taste. There is a reason, probably, that the two of them are usually here, at the shop.

“What would you do? If you did quit, what would you prefer, do you think?”

Crowley gives it a few moments, staring up at the ceiling and frowning. His eyes really are terribly beautiful, shining like gold in this light. 

“Don’t know. Think I’d like to open a flower shop, maybe. But that stuff is hard, even if you actually sell stuff.”

“Is that a thinly veiled criticism of my business practises?”

“Didn’t think it was veiled.”

“You fiend.”

“That’s me. But no, you know. You took over an existing place, right? ‘S different, starting something new. Got to find a customer base, figure out what sort of stuff people like to buy. Succulents and monsteras, I imagine, but still. And you need cash, to start, and all. And I may make a decent amount, but I do also use the most of it.”

Aziraphale can think of a very obvious solution to this, but he doesn’t voice it. He isn’t ready for that kind of commitment yet. Of course it would be much easier for Crowley if he moved in with Aziraphale, gave up his flat, but they have not been together long enough for that, not by far, even if Aziraphale does think it might be nice, some time in the future. He doesn’t think that Crowley is trying to subtly ask this, or trying to get him to offer, Crowley is far too nice for that. And one must be allowed to express one’s frustration without expectation of concrete help.

“I understand it is challenging,” Aziraphale replies instead, “and a difficult choice. But if you think it would make you happier, be more fulfilling, then I think it is a goal worth pursuing. And you know, I’m sure if you ask, Gabriel can recommend a lot of books on starting a small business.”

Crowley groans and laughs.

-

As the weather gets warmer, and very slightly less rainy, as much as one can hope for in England, Crowley invites Aziraphale for a drive. Which sounds odd to Aziraphale. Just- just driving? But when Crowley shows up in an ancient looking and thoroughly beautiful car, he sort of starts to understand.

Aziraphale gets in, and does glimpse what looks suspiciously like a picnic basket stashed in the back, only it appears to have been spray painted black. To match, presumably, Crowley’s whole aesthetic. 

“You okay with some music?”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely,” Aziraphale replies, as Crowley fails to keep any of the speed limits.

It was fine while they were still in the city, but now they are on the motorway, Crowley seems to try to break the speed of sound.

“Great. Just press play there, on the- yeah. The CD player is broken, so it doesn’t open any more, and we are limited to Queen’s greatest hits volume 2, I’m afraid. Apparently you’re not meant to try and forcibly install music players in classic cars.”

“No, I can’t imagine why,” Aziraphale remarks, struggling to find something to hold on to as Crowley breaks several traffic laws, and the male singer demands whether this is a kind of magic, despite having claimed, repeatedly, that it is.

They stop by the sea, where it is, despite Crowley’s promises that he had checked the forecast, rather cold and windy. It doesn’t rain, though, and so they find a small rocky outcropping behind which to shelter from the wind, and Crowley unpacks their basket. He’s been, it seems, to several of Aziraphale’s favourite shops and bakeries, because despite his thorough lack of respect for traffic, he is a wonderful boyfriend. 

“Sorry, again, I swear the app promised me sun,” Crowley says as he pours hot cocoa into a mug. 

Crowley’s mugs, of course, are all black, and just enough off from a standard design and shape to betray how stupidly expensive and designed they are. Aziraphale, who usually buys his in charity shops, does not understand this, or paying more than a pound for one, but each to their own. 

The bright side to the weather is that it offers an excellent excuse to huddle together against the cold. After they (mostly Aziraphale) have finished the food, and are sharing the remains of the hot cocoa, which Aziraphale suspects contains a little bit of something significantly stronger than cocoa powder, but not enough that Crowley isn’t good to drive back. Well, as good as he was, at the very least. 

“Thank you for this,” Aziraphale tells him, wrapping one arm around Crowley, who pretends he isn’t shivering. 

“Course. Thought this would be nice. Thought it’d be nic _er_ , actually. But it’s you. Which is good.”

Crowley leans into Aziraphale tugging the edge of the picnic blanket (tartan, but in black and red, which Aziraphale thinks is a lovely compromise) over his legs. He spends a while telling Aziraphale about the car, a Bentley, apparently. Aziraphale doesn’t understand most of it, but it is always nice to hear Crowley get enthusiastic about things, even if Aziraphale’s car interest never even got as far as learning to drive. What, after all, is the point of it in London? He asks Crowley this, which leads to a long explanation which consists mostly of incoherent annoyance.

They watch the sea for a while, and a seagull inching closer to where a few crumbs linger by their blanket, before giving up at the last moment, sensing, perhaps, the large scary limbed serpent that guards the spot. Crowley has said that animals don’t, generally, love him. That they can smell the snake on him or something. And, of course, snakes themselves aren’t often social animals, with the exception of the ones that have, according to Crowley, orgies. 

“You know,” Crowley says, leaning into Aziraphale’s side, sliding one of his legs between Aziraphale’s, for, presumably, warmth, “I’ve been trying not to be too much, to… to make you uncomfortable or anything, to go at your pace…”

Which sounds unnerving, doesn’t it? Sounds like the start of a break up, but surely Crowley wouldn’t do it like this? Wouldn’t invite him somewhere nice and then tell him it’s all over when they have an hour to drive back, at least?

“Yes?” he asks, very hesitantly.

“And look. I’m just very, very grateful for you.”

“And?”

“And? I just- Just wanted to say I appreciate you?”

“Oh! Oh good. I’m sorry, you prefaced it as if to-”

“Oh- Oh, yeah, yeah, no I see how you. Shit. Sorry. Just. Just sort of declaring my devotion, I suppose. Again, don’t want to be too much, but-”

“You’re not,” Aziraphale reassures, taking both of Crowley’s hands in his.

“It is all right. I greatly appreciate you too. I hope you know that, even if it- It has taken me a little while to catch up, yes?”

“Yeah?”

Crowley is wearing his glasses, to protect himself from flying sand, he claims, but Aziraphale can still see the faint outline of how big and hopeful his eyes are.

“Of course. And I- I will. I promise. Eventually I will. Fully. But I- you. I care for you very deeply, my dear, and I can’t imagine going back to my life without you. It would feel terribly empty and lonely, now, I think. And I do hope you can continue to be patient with me.”

Crowley melts into him, clinging to him tightly, as if afraid he might disappear if he loosens his grip. Or, well, perhaps simply because of his serpentine nature.

“Always,” he promises.

“But, ah, speaking of going too fast, do you think we should perhaps head back? It’s getting cold, isn’t it?”

It isn’t, really, but Crowley has put his hands inside of Aziraphale’s coat, and he suspects it is not just because he is attempting to undress him.

“Yeah, all right.”

They drive back in the darkening afternoon light, as dark clouds decide that England has had enough passably okay weather for today, as the man on the CD asks who wants to live forever, and Aziraphale thinks that with Crowley, he might want to.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley confesses his plans, sulks and has Opinions on Aziraphale's choices in technology.

“A cassette player, Angel? Really?”

Crowley is frowning at the offensively out of fashion (but not in a cool retro way quite yet) piece of technology. It smiles stupidly back at him with its almost deliberately placed constellation of buttons.

“Yes! I thought I ought to update. My gramophone, of course, is lovely, but it cannot, unfortunately, play records made after around 1940, and although most of the good music was written before then, I have been convinced to make an effort to get to know some newer stuff as well.”

“And so obviously you thought yes, cassette player, a technology from the late sixties, that’s the most modern medium possibly, yes?”

“Yes? I am aware, Crowley, that you can get music digitally, but I do like having a physical medium. These devices are so fiddly, and sometimes they delete everything with no warning, so yes. A cassette player.”

“You are ridiculous,” Crowley tells Aziraphale, and kisses his cheek.

“Why not a CD player? Or a record player? Those are cool again, you know. I have one.”

Aziraphale makes a very adorable sort of wiggly shrug.

“Cassette players are what I remember were the new thing when I was little. I always wanted one.”

Crowley makes a noise that is incomprehensible even to himself.

“Yeah. Yup. Fair enough, then.”

He busies himself picking up another of the plants he’s brought over, finding the perfect spot between two stacks of books. It’s a little succulent, because Aziraphale is self admittedly not very used to taking care of plants, so Crowley is starting him off easy. Well, continuing him off easy. He thought the snake plant needed some mates. Of course, as he had said earlier, he’s perfectly happy to come over most days to make sure the plants are doing all right. Any excuse, really, to see Aziraphale. But space is important too. Sometimes he has to remind himself of that, which he knows is not great, is part of still being very much infatuated with Aziraphale, being in love and loving at the same time. 

“Oh, they are absolutely lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale praises, and Crowley swears he can see the plants leaning towards the angel as if he were the sun.

But he might as well be, so Crowley can’t blame them. He does fear they’ll get spoiled, though, complacent and let themselves go. 

“They’re all right, yeah. Got a little way to go yet, but they’ll flourish if they know what’s good for them,” Crowley says, glaring pointedly at a slightly too small leafy protuberance. 

“Oh, you’re too harsh on the sweet darlings,” Aziraphale insists, taking advantage of Crowley having deposited all the plants to press a mug of steaming tea into his hands.

“Thanks. But no. Discipline, that’s what they need. A good yelling at to make sure they know what they have to do.”

Aziraphale’s smile is soft and gentle as he shakes his head a little. He suggested, once, that Crowley might be projecting somewhat, onto these plants, using them to take out his frustrations at himself, but this is of course nonsense. Possibly nonsense that Crowley had needed a good two days serpentine sulk to get over, but nonsense still. 

-

“Why,” Anathema asks, leaning over Crowley’s shoulder in the still fairly empty pub, “are you looking at real estate?”

Crowley starts, swearing and closing his phone.

“Oi, what’s with you sneaking up on me?”

Anathema shrugs, settling on the other side of the table with a small, fancy and entirely overpriced bottle of imported beer. 

“Didn’t get me one of those, did you?” he asks, nodding at it.

“Nah. Didn’t want to presume your taste,” she replies with a grin.

“How considerate,” replies Crowley, equally snarkily, who has been drinking with his friend for several years, and who knows her to be perfectly aware of his alcoholic preferences.

“Anyway,” Anathema continues after testing her beer, “spill.”

“Fine, fine. Been looking at tiny shops for rent.”

Anathema’s eyebrows make the journey past the upper rim of her very large glasses.

“For?”

“You’ve not seen it in my cards? Thought you were meant to be psychic.”

“Maybe I’m asking to be polite,” she replies defensively.

Crowley laughs.

“Fine. Been… Been talking to Aziraphale a lot-”

“Oh have you? I haven’t heard anything about that!”

“No need for sarcasm, young lady.”

“Wow.”

“Fuck off. ‘M serious. Telling you about life decisions here.”

Anathema rolls her eyes, and they are briefly interrupted by the arrival of their food. Crowley further annoys Anathema and creates unnecessary dramatic tension by stuffing a handful of chips in his mouth before continuing.

“You’re gross,” she tells him, but she looks amused.

“Wanna quit my job,” he tells her, eventually, “want to stop selling people stupid shit I don’t care about and start a flower shop.”

“So you can sell people shit you do care about?”

“Exactly, yes. I mean. Know it’s kind of a distant dream still, but there is a decent space, not very big, but still, that’s just become available. ‘S difficult of course, and expensive as shit.”

“Yeah,” Anathema says in a brief pause between chips, “paying rent on two places in central London? Bit much even for you, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Crowley admits, “yeah, that’s the thing. Couldn’t afford my flat any more. And I don’t think I could downsize. Still. Person can dream, can’t they?”

“You can,” Anathema agrees, and her voice is infuriatingly soft and sympathetic. 

Crowley isn’t about that, so he walks over to the bar and buys himself a no doubt mildly disappointing glass of wine. Alcohol is always a solution.

-

The following weekend Crowley isn’t having a good time. He’s gotten all in his head about this stupid idea of his, this quaint, twee little dream of quitting his corporate job to run a flower shop, this foolish idea that he would be able to be happy no doubt economically struggling. Although he does feel confident that he would make a better shopkeeper than Aziraphale (he loves the angel, but that’s not exactly a high bar), he doesn’t have any illusions about how difficult starting up something like that would be.

There is something almost embarrassing about admitting his dreams to others, especially ones he doesn’t know will come true, and as such he decides that the way to avoid thinking about this is to be a little snake for a while. He gets home from work on Friday afternoon, gets in the shower, makes himself a large enough meal that his snake body will not feel the need to eat, and hooks his laptop up to his telly to set up a nice playlist of background films he can sort of halfway watch, volume down. So he won’t need to be human unless he wants to. Turns off his phone so he won’t have to deal with anyone.

It is always freeing to not have to be human. To be able to let go of a lot of the things that worry him, a lot of human nonsense that snakes do not need to concern themselves with. To not have to think about having limbs, or complex social relationships or a career or a personal economy. He curls himself under his heat lamp, on his favourite flat rock, the one that reflects the heat really well, in a position where he can sort of pay attention to the film playing, an old James Bond one, but mostly just be.

He must, at some point, have fallen asleep, because he is rudely awakened by his doorbell ringing. Has he ordered something and forgotten about it? No. No he doesn’t think so. He’ll wait it out, they’ll leave. It rings for a few more seconds, then quiets. Excellent. And then, half a minute later, it rings again. This happens three more times before Crowley hisses, grows some limbs, and goes over to the door and picks up. He makes an incoherent, hoarse noise into the speaker.

“Crowley?”

It’s- ah. He hadn’t told Aziraphale he would disappear for a bit. Possibly that is something one should tell one’s significant other. Shit. Maybe he’s been worried, maybe he’s tried calling and texting and not been able to get hold of him. Fuck.

“Yeah. Sorry,” he says, pressing the button to open, “flat door’s unlocked, just let yourself in.”

Guilt surges through him, and so he does what any sensible and good at communication person would do, which is to unlock the door to his flat and collapse into his serpentine form again. The floor is awfully cold against his scales, and he curls in on himself just far enough into the hallway that Aziraphale won’t accidentally step on him. That would be an embarrassing way to break his spine.

A few minutes later the door opens, and Aziraphale lets himself in, locking the door behind him.

“Crowley?” he calls out, shrugging off his coat and hanging it in the well hidden closet.

He still almost steps on Crowley before noticing him. Perhaps the black scales do not stand out against the dark charcoal floor too well.

“Oh! Oh, my darling, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

He kneels down next to Crowley reaching a hand out to stroke carefully over his scales.

“The floor must be terribly cold on your scales, won’t you come here?” he asks, and Crowley hesitates only for about two seconds before winding himself up around Aziraphale’s arm.

It is warm, and perfect, and when he flicks his tongue out the familiar scent of books and dust and tea is everywhere. He positions himself in his favourite place, around Aziraphale’s neck, inside the collar of the soft woolly (and, of course, beige) jumper he’s wearing. Lets himself be gently stroked as Aziraphale settles on his sofa, frowning at the screen, and eventually figuring out how to turn it off. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, and waits for Crowley to answer.

He nods, because that’s what you’re meant to do, isn’t it?

“Only I’ve been trying to call you, you see.”

Ah. Crowley unwinds himself enough to raise himself up, to bump his face into Aziraphale’s cheek, to flick his tongue out in a little snakey kiss. 

“Yes, you are incredibly sweet. If I may ask, are you like this because you want to, or because you specifically don’t want to be human?”

Crowley hesitates, then shakes his head, and nods.

“Ah, two questions at once, I see how that’s less easy. But because you don’t want to be human, is that right?”

Crowley nods again. He receives a kiss on his head for his efforts. Snake scales, of course, are less sensitive to touch than skin, which is a shame, because he wants fully to appreciate Aziraphale’s kisses. Perhaps later.

“Is it all right if I stay with you for a little while?”

Crowley nods again, capturing Aziraphale’s finger with his tail when he reaches up to pet his scales, curling the muscle tightly around him. He is rewarded with another kiss.

“Thank you, my dear. I- I find myself feeling lonely when I do not see you for a few days. I used to be so… so used to being alone, that I thought I didn’t mind, but these days I miss you after only a day. Which is odd, for me, but I certainly don’t mind. I understand, of course, that you want to be alone sometimes, as do I, but I… Perhaps the next time you could send me a text message letting me know?”

Crowley nods emphatically to communicate that he will.

“Oh- oh, thank you, my dear. Only I do worry when you don’t reply at all for two days.”

Shit. Is it Sunday already? Crowley has very little memory of the weekend. He slithers down from Aziraphale, burrowing under the half folded blanket in the corner before resuming his human shape.

“Fuck, sorry,” he mutters, draping the blanket over himself to be somewhat decent, “Didn’t realise it had been that long. Snake brain doesn’t have a great internal clock.”

“Oh! Crowley. It is lovely to see this face of yours too,” Aziraphale tells him, all soft smile and the faintest of flush in his cheeks.

Crowley runs a hand through his no doubt badly misbehaving hair. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you, I was just. Really not feeling the whole human thing. I’ll text you if it happens again, let you know I’ve not been brutally murdered or anything. Promise.”

Aziraphale shifts a little closer, enough to give him a gentle, chaste kiss.

“Thank you, my dear.”

He tugs Crowley into a hug, and Crowley melts into him. He rests his head against Aziraphale’s chest, perfectly soft and incredibly comfortable, letting himself be wrapped in his arms. He reaches back to pull the blanket fully over himself, and stays there, feeling like he never wants to move.

“Love you,” he mutters into Aziraphale’s chest, so muffled he is almost entirely certain it’s inaudible.

“And I you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, neglected this for like two or three weeks, sorry. Got really into the other fic I started and also have been super busy. Hope everyone is having a good late december time, regardless of what that might mean for you specifically.


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